


Unique In Its Madness

by ZombieBabs



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Apocalypse, Demonic Possession, Established Relationship, F/M, Family of Choice, Found Family, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Muteness, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-27 17:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 41,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10813134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: Alex and Strand have been sleeping together in secret for weeks. It's not a relationship, not quite. But their secret is brought into the light when Alex receives a fateful phone call in the middle of the night.Thomas Warren has been murdered. Stabbed thirteen times in his bed.Strand is found, mute, walking the side of the road. Miles away from the scene of the crime, but holding the murder weapon.With the help of Simon Reece, Coralee Strand, and Tannis Braun, Alex must help Strand wrestle back the control of the demons possessing him and find the sacred Horn of Tiamat to stop the apocalypse she inadvertently started.





	1. Saturday

**PART ONE**

**03:07 - Present Time**

It’s three o’clock in the morning when Alex’s phone rings. 

She stares blearily at the red numbers on her alarm clock before reaching over and grasping at the cell phone vibrating against the wood of her bedside table. 

“Alex,” Nic says, before she can so much as manage a greeting. “Sorry to call you this late. But--Jesus, don’t freak out, okay?”

Despite his words, Alex’s heartbeat skyrockets. She sits up in bed and clutches at the phone.“Nic, what? What’s going on?”

“Thomas Warren was murdered yesterday night. He was--he was stabbed. Thirteen times.”

“Holy shit.”

“That’s not all. Alex--” Nic swallows, audibly. “Strand was arrested. The police are charging him with murder.”

The phone drops from Alex’s hand. It lands in her lap. Nic’s tinny voice calls her name, but Alex ignores it. Her hands grip at the comforter, fingers twisting in the fabric.

Finally, she retrieves her phone and presses it to her ear. “What happened, Nic?”

“Oh, thank Christ. You scared the fuck out of me, Alex.”

“Sorry, I--Nic, _what happened_?”

“I don’t know, Alex. They’re doing what they can to keep the details out of the news. Ruby _just_ called me--she was almost in hysterics. She only got the news herself. She told me--she told me they found Strand walking the streets around midnight. Barefoot. His suit was covered in blood. He was...he was holding a knife, Alex.”

“Oh my God,” Alex says.

“This is bad, Alex. This is _so_ bad. Do you think our sponsors will pull out?”

Alex rears back in surprise, feeling almost as if she were just slapped. “What? _That’s_ what you think is important right now? The podcast?”

“Alex--”

“ _No_ ,” Alex says. She takes a deep breath, willing her voice even. “Nic, he didn’t do it. Richard--Dr. Strand...he couldn’t have done it. He couldn’t have _murdered_ someone.”

“He had the murder weapon, Alex. I know--look, I know you guys are friends, but the evidence is here is pretty damning.”

Alex stares at the bed beside her. It’s empty, the comforter rumpled. “You don’t get it, Nic. He couldn’t have murdered Warren because Strand was _here_ last night. At my apartment.”


	2. Friday

**00:15 - 27 Hours Earlier**

Kevin Reilly is on his way home when he catches sight of the man. The man walks on the side of the road, against traffic. He stumbles a little, but rights himself before he can fall completely.

Reilly sighs. It’s his kids birthday-- _was_ his kid’s birthday. He was supposed to be home hours ago. He promised Melissa, _pinky promised_ her, he’d be home in time for the party. He should have known better.

He was called in on a domestic disturbance just as he was about to take off for the day. He arrived to find a cheating boyfriend who came home to find his X-Box melted into a molten heap in the back yard. He had to deal with both the boyfriend and the girlfriend screaming, throwing threats at each other from across the front yard. In once instance, he even had to haul the girlfriend back, her hands curled into claws, when the boyfriend made a comment about her weight.

He missed the party. Missed dinner. Missed seeing the look on his baby’s face when she blew out the candles on her cake and opened her presents.

He can picture Kathy at home, trying to explain to Melissa how--once again--Daddy couldn’t be home because he’s off fighting bad guys.

Reilly dreads the day Melissa finds out the bad guys are usually just drunks and petty thieves. That her daddy isn’t the superhero momma makes him out to be.

The man stumbles again. He’s closer now. He has something in his hand, held loosely at his side. A bottle?

Figures. Just what Reilly needs. A drunk on his way to getting himself hit by a car.

Reilly pulls his squad car onto the shoulder. He steps out of the car, leaving the headlights shining. The drunk walks toward the car, but he walks slowly, shuffling like a zombie. He gives no indication he even knows Reilly is standing there.

“Sir. I’m Officer Reilly. How many drinks have you had tonight?”

The drunk doesn’t answer. His face is tilted, dark hair obscuring the top half of his face. The drunk stares down at the road at his feet, as if he can will himself to walk straight.

The drunk is barefoot. He wears a suit, but his feet are bare. Reilly thinks, at first, the blood must have come from stepping in glass. Before he realizes the man is covered in it.

The dark fabric of his suit hides most of it, but his feet, his hands, his white shirt--he’s just about _dripping_ with blood. Reilly knows his face is probably covered in it, too. Probably why the guy refuses to look at him.

The object in his hand is not a bottle, but a knife. The silver of the blade is wet with blood.

“What the fuck?” Reilly mutters, hand going to his hip, to the gun in its holster.

The man continues walking.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to put down that knife. Put it down.”

The knife slides out of the man’s grasp. It lands in the grass. The man keeps walking.

“Get on the ground,” Reilly says. “Now.”

The man stops. He looks up.

His eyes--almost startling in the intensity of their color--are dead. He blinks slowly. Shock, maybe?

“Help me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

The man falls to his knees, uncaring of the asphalt. Reilly winces in sympathy and approaches slowly, like a man trying not to spook an injured animal.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

The man doesn’t answer. 

“Sir? Is any of that blood yours?”

A minuscule shake of his head.

“Can you tell me whose blood that is?” Reilly asks.

No answer. The man stares, unseeing, into the headlights of Reilly’s squad car.

“Did you hurt someone?”

Is Reilly imagining it or was the slight movement of the man’s head a nod?

“If someone out there needs medical attention, you have to tell me, okay?”

The man closes his eyes. He shivers. The night air is warm, unseasonably so, but the man trembles, teeth chattering.

Shit. He’s definitely in shock. 

“Stay right where you are,” Reilly says. But he doesn’t have to. The man doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere anytime soon.

Reilly pulls the shock blanket out of the trunk. He wraps it around the bloodied form of the man. “I’m going to take you to the station, get you cleaned up, ask you some questions. Can you stand?”

The answer is barely. Reilly pulls the man from the ground and half-carries him to the squad car. Reilly instinctively helps him to duck his head, but the man almost seems to know what to do, as if this isn’t his first time in the back seat of a squad car.

Interesting.

Reilly closes the door. Before he gets into the driver’s seat, he snaps on a pair of gloves and retrieves the knife from the grass. He seals it into an evidence bag.

“Can you tell me your name?” Reilly asks, after he’s started up the car and pulled it off the shoulder.

The man stares out of the window, face expressionless, eyes cold and lifeless. He shivers and retreats further into the shock blanket. And further, it seems, into himself. 

 

**06:26 - 21 Hours Earlier**

Anna Sokolov lets herself into Thomas Warren’s apartment, just as she always does. She’s running extremely late, but unlike some of her other clients, Mr. Warren is almost never home. It’s her only saving grace after a morning of mishap after mishap.

She slept through her alarm. She was nearly hit at an intersection by a man with his cell phone pressed to one ear with one hand, a hot cup of coffee held in the other, driving with his knees. And once she’d arrived, Mr. Warren’s doorman, as usual, gave her a hard time. 

He asked to see her identification, spent many more minutes than he needed to to check the computer system, to confirm her permissions into Mr. Warren’s penthouse. Just as he does every Wednesday and Friday, when she’s scheduled to clean Mr. Warren’s apartment. Sokolov knows it’s an excuse to speak with her. He grins at her, lecherous and leering, as she taps her foot with impatience. Her disinterest in him only seems to fuel his efforts, however. Every Wednesday and Friday, he attempts to keep her for longer and longer, making up ridiculous excuses.

Sokolov hopes to God he’s not a serial killer.

Mr. Warren’s apartment is dark. Sokolov drops her bag by the door and turns on the lamp by the entryway. Everything seems to be in order, but for some reason, Sokolov shivers.

The apartment _feels_ wrong.

Sokolov touches the crucifix at her throat with her fingertips.

Has Mr. Warren’s apartment always been so oppressively quiet? After years of working for Mr. Warren, is she only noticing it now?

Sokolov shakes her head. She’s being silly, allowing herself to feel spooked. The apartment is quiet, empty, just as it normally is. She’s just letting her shitty morning get the best of her. She puts in her headphones, presses play on her iPod, and endeavors to get to work.

The sooner she finishes here, the sooner she can get back to her classwork. The sooner she finishes her classwork, the sooner she can finish her online degree. The sooner she finishes her online degree, the sooner she can leave her useless, drunk husband and move to someplace sunny and warm. Florida, maybe.

Since Mr. Warren is hardly ever home, there isn’t much work to do. Still, Sokolov cleans as if he could come home at any minute. She scrubs the kitchen and bathroom. She dusts, careful not to knock over any of the strange statues Mr. Warren seems to collect. She vacuums the living and dining areas.

Finally, she makes her way into the bedroom.

And screams.

 

**09:58 - 19 Hours Earlier**

“So, Dr. Strand, is it? Dr. Richard Strand?”

Detective Aritra Cole places a paper cup of water on the table, pushes it toward the man sitting at the other end.

The man blinks slowly at the cup. He lifts his eyes and blinks at her, just as slowly.

Cole has dealt with murderers before. Harden criminals. Even a handful of wannabe serial killers. But none of them have ever looked at her like that. Like there is no one behind those bright blue eyes. She resists the urge to shiver.

“Heard you had a rough night,” Cole says.

Strand says nothing. He hasn’t said a word since they brought him in. Hadn’t uttered a word when they stripped him of his bloody clothes. Or when they took samples from his skin and fingernails. Like a marionette with broken strings, he moves only when others manhandle him. He’s been sitting at the same cold table, in the same dimly lit interrogation room, for hours. Without protest.

A smart man like that, a doctor? Cole would have thought he’d lawyer up, first thing.

But, no.

And if he’s maintaining his right to silence, well, he’s doing a real fucking _creepy_ job of it.

“We found Thomas Warren,” Cole tells him. “That name mean anything to you?”

Strand’s fingers reach out, the pads of his fingers brushing the bottom of the paper cup. Cole narrows her eyes at him, but beyond toying with the cup, he doesn’t respond.

“We sent the knife Officer Reilly found you with to the lab to be tested. We’re pretty sure it’s going to be a match. So, why don’t you tell me why you did it?”

Strand’s hand slithers off the table to sit in his lap.

“Come on. You stabbed him _thirteen_ times. What’d he do that pissed you off that much?”

Is Cole imagining things or does he flinch?

Cole changes tactics. She smiles, giving him a conspiratorial look. “Rich guy like that--he probably had it coming. You probably did the world a _favor_. You can tell me what happened. Were you lovers? Business partners? He steal your girl? Steal something else?”

No reaction, not even the slightest twitch.

Cole opens the manilla folder in front of her. Her eyes scan the print out, even though she knows what it’s going to say. “You’ve got quite the interesting record. Sixteen, you were arrested on suspicion of murder. Little boy, Bobby Maimes, drowned in Red Bank Creek. Charges dropped due to insufficient evidence. At thirty-eight, you were arrested for assault. Pushed a Lenore Hill after a verbal altercation, broke her wrist. Settled out of court. Very shortly afterward--I’m talking days, here--you were arrested on suspicion of another murder. Your wife, Coralee Strand, disappeared under _very_ strange circumstances. But, again, charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence.”

Core looks at Strand. “I’m beginning to see a pattern here, aren’t you?”

Strand opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. A flash of something--fear, anxiety, maybe?--bring his eyes to life. But it’s gone as soon as it comes. He closes his mouth. 

She switches tactics again, softening her eyes. She pushes the folder to the side and leans in. “I see an angry man across from me. Who let his emotions get the better of him. You asked Officer Reilly for help when he picked you up. I can get you help. But you have to tell me what happened.”

Again, Strand opens his mouth. And again, no words emerge. The same burst of emotion behind his eyes, stronger this time. He closes his eyes, clenches them shut and shakes his head. He wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into the cotton of the oversized white T-shirt he was made to wear when they took his clothes from him.

“Hey,” Cole says, cataloguing his distress. It’s a toss up whether pushing him now will yield results or send him careening back inside of himself. She decides to take the risk. “You just have to tell me what happened. I’ll get you all the help you need. I promise. Can you do that for me?”

Still gripping himself with one hand, Strand places the other on the table. He taps the metal tabletop, hesitantly, twice.

Something like relief washes through him. His grip on the t-shirt loosens. He watches her, something expectant in his eyes.

It takes Cole a moment to get it. Two knocks. “One for yes, two for no?”

One tap.

“You can’t tell me what happened?”

Two taps.

“Because you physically can’t speak or you don’t want to?”

Strand frowns.

“Okay, okay. You physically can’t speak?”

A pause. One tap.

“If I get you a pen and paper, could you write it down?”

Another pause, longer this time. But he taps the table one time.

“Good, good. I’ll be right back.”

Cole signals for the officer outside to let her out of the room. She returns a moment later with a ballpoint and legal pad. She slides it toward Strand, who takes it.

He writes for a few minutes while Cole watches. His handwriting is a neat, cursive scrawl she doesn’t expect from someone left-handed. The lefties she knows have all had terrible penmanship, but Strand writes with slow, measured confidence.

But something changes. Like a shadow passing over him. His lettering turns into a jagged print, the pen scratching deep into the paper. Cole looks up to see his shoulders shaking. He huddles over the pad as he writes, but no tears fall.

Not crying. Laughing?

“Hey,” Cole says. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t listen. He scratches deep enough to rip through the paper. 

Cole gets up from her seat. She rounds the table and takes him by the shoulder, pushing him until he uncurls from over the paper. 

He’s grinning. A huge, unnatural grin stretched wide across his face.

But his eyes. His eyes are frightened. She’s never seen such animalistic fear in another person before, not in all her time on the force.

His right hand grabs for the pen. Cole jumps back, but he doesn’t go for her. He stabs downward into his left hand, leaving the pen embedded into his body.

He doesn’t so much as scream.

“Shit,” Cole says. “Shit, shit.”

She pounds on the door, her eyes never leaving his grinning, horrified face. “Let me out of here! Wilson, open the goddamn door!”

 

**11:12 - 16 Hours Earlier**

Luisa Cardona strides into the bullpen, her back straight, her high heels clicking. She brushes her long black hair behind her shoulder. “My client, Dr. Richard Strand. I understand you’re holding him for questioning.”

Uniformed officers and plain clothes detectives look at her, expressions strange.

Cardona narrows her eyes. “My client. Where is he?”

A tall, dark skinned woman stands up, pushing passed the crowd of people around her desk. “Aritra Cole. Detective.”

They shake hands. Detective Cole gestures for Cardona to follow her.

“Why wasn’t I notified of his arrest? What are the charges?”

“He was brought in around midnight. Covered in blood. He didn’t ask for a lawyer, so we never called for one.” 

“And the charges?” Cardona presses.

“Murder. The body of Thomas Warren was found in his bed early this morning by his housekeeper, stabbed thirteen times with the utility knife Strand was seen carrying when Officer Reilly brought him in.”

Cardona frowns. She shakes her head. “Just take me to him.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Cardona says, stopping short upon entering the interrogation room. 

Her client sits handcuffed to the metal table in the center of the room. Blood pools around one of his hands. His eyes are closed, looking for all the world asleep, except for the tightness of the muscles in his back. 

“My client needs medical attention, not to be handcuffed to a table.”

“He stuck a _pen_ into his own fucking hand,” Cole says. She doesn’t walk any further into the room, standing near the door. “He was writing down his statement when he just _stabbed_ himself.”

Cardona looks at her, her brow lifted incredulously. “So you left him to bleed?”

“It took _four_ officers to hold him down long enough to take out the pen. He was biting and kicking like a fucking animal. We were lucky we managed to cuff him--”

Strand’s eyes open, falling on Cole. Cole backs up further, hiding her apprehension by leaning against the wall. As if she meant to do so the whole time.

“Richard?” Cardona says.

His eyes slide to meet hers. She sees nothing of the cool, intelligent man she’s come to know over the years.

“I’m going to get you some help, okay? Just hang tight. I’ll get this mess sorted out.”

His eyes close.

To Detective Cole, Cardona says, “I want to see the written statement.”

Detective Cole looks warily at Strand. “Are you sure? Because it was mostly gibberish and--”

“Now,” Cardona says.

Detective Cole leaves, returning with a legal pad. The first page starts off with Strand’s familiar hand, but it changes into something jagged. Spiked lettering, boldened by a change in pressure, the pen pressed so hard into the paper it’s torn in several places.

_The Other is watching me. Hounding me. The shadows haunt me, taunt me. They’ve stolen my voice. I cannot speak._

_Yet they speak to me. They whisper in my ears. The sound echoes in my head until I can hear nothing else._

_please. help me. my body is not my own. i fear what the shadows are capable of, what i am capable_

_AdvoCaTe muST Die to BE rEbOrn aNEW In tHe aRMs oF TiAmAt. The AdvoCaTe **muST** Die to BE rEbOrn aNEW In tHe aRMs oF TiAmAt. The **AdvoCaTe** muST **Die** to BE rEbOrn aNEW In tHe aRMs oF TiAmAt. The Advo **CaTe muST Die to BE rEbOrn aNEW In tHe aRMs oF TiAmAt.**_

**_HE IS COMING. HE IS COM_ **

Cardona looks up from the legal pad. Strand hasn’t moved. She looks at Detective Cole, who still watches Strand as if he could jump at her at any moment.

“He needs psychiatric care. These are clearly the words of someone who’s had a break in their mental faculties.”

“He’s a psycho alright, but this is a high-profile murder case. The DA--”

Cardona interrupts her. “Will have a lot to hear about the subject of a mentally ill man left restrained in an interrogation room, bleeding from a self-inflicted stab wound while you’ve yet to formally charge him.”

“We can hold him up to thirty-six hours--”

“Either charge him and see to it he has adequate medical care or release him so I can get him admitted to a psychiatric hospital. He needs a doctor, for God’s sake.”

With one last look at Strand, Cole says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with me here, police procedural is not really my specialty. I'm stepping WAY out of my comfort zone here. So if something doesn't work as it should in real life, it's because I'm basing all of this solely upon my knowledge of L&O:SVU and my friend's knowledge via Lockup.


	3. Saturday

**09:22 - Present Time**

Alex can’t concentrate. She tries to listen back to her previous recordings, to decide what to edit and what to highlight, but she can’t fucking concentrate.

She hears Strand’s voice in her ears and all she wants to do is break down and cry.

Or hit something.

She’s so tired, so full of worry, it’s difficult to know exactly what she wants to do.

She’s not used to having to sit back and wait. She’s called the police station a dozen times by now, only to be told the lead investigator is busy and will call her back. She’s called Charlie, to no avail. She’s called Cheryl, only to be told by Cheryl's husband she doesn’t want to be involved. She’s even called Ruby, but the younger woman remains unreachable.

Nic knocks at the door to her office, but doesn’t wander in as he usually does. “There’s a Detective Cole here to see you.”

Things have been a little strained between Nic and Alex. He’s upset with her, for putting herself in this position by becoming involved with Strand. But it’s not as if Nic is the paragon of journalistic virtue. He, himself, has been sleeping with both Geoff and MK. And compared to some of the other stunts Alex has pulled in the last year, sleeping with Strand should be the last of Nic’s worries. Ethically questionable? Yes. Blatant disrespect for the law? No.

He and Alex trade anxious glances before he turns and leaves Alex alone with the detective.

Detective Cole is a tall, dark-skinned woman. Her shirt is bright white, layered under a suit jacket. Her skirt is pressed and pleated. She flashes her badge, but doesn’t smile. Nor does she hold out her hand for Alex to shake. There’s a tension around her eyes which speaks to long days without proper sleep.

Alex knows exactly what that’s like.

“I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind,” Detective Cole says. “About your colleague, Dr. Strand.”

“I’ve been trying to call,” Alex says. “I have some information--”

“You claim Dr. Strand was with you on the night of the murder.”

Alex bristles. “I don’t _claim_. He _was_ with me on the night of the murder.”

“And yet--”

This time Alex interrupts the other woman. “We’ve been sleeping together. We were on a date. I picked him up from his father’s house. We went out to eat, had a few glasses of wine. I drove us both back to my apartment. We--we were in bed by eight.”

“And by ‘in bed’ you mean--?”

Alex blushes. “Sex, yes.”

“And you went right to sleep, after? About what time?”

“Ten.”

Detective Cole cocks an elegantly arched eyebrow. “You’re sure about that? You take a look at the time after you two were finished?”

Alex resists the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “I have insomnia. My therapist makes me keep a sleep journal. So yes, I did look at the time.”

“You have any other proof? It’s not the first time a lover has tried to lie to provide an alibi. You got anything else which could place Dr. Strand at your apartment?”

“He made a call from my apartment to his assistant, Ruby Carver. You can check the cell phone records.”

Detective Cole makes a few notes in her phone. “And what time was that?”

“Around seven. Just after we got back from the restaurant.”

“And can anyone place you at the restaurant?”

Alex shrugs. “The hostess, maybe? Strand payed with his credit card, so it should show up on his credit statement.”

Detective Cole taps her finger against the screen of her phone before she seems to realize what she’s doing. She pulls her fingers away like the screen has burnt them. “So let me get this straight, you have a romantic evening planned out. You pick him up from his residence.”

Alex refrains from interrupting her, from telling the other woman Strand doesn’t like it when people refer to his father’s house as if it were his own.

“You go out for dinner and drinks,” Cole continues. “And go back to your residence. Why yours? Why not his?”

“My apartment is closer to the studio. We had an early day planned. We were going to go back to his father’s house afterward.”

“But he wasn’t there when you awoke?”

Alex bites her lip, loathe to give this woman any information which could hurt Strand. But she knows one lie--even to protect Strand--will likely invalidate her entire account of the evening. “He disappears, sometimes. It’s not the first time I’ve woken alone, but--”

“But what?” Cole asks.

“His shoes were still by the front door when I woke up.”

The elegantly arched eyebrow raises. “Does Dr. Strand often leave without his shoes?”

“No, never. I thought it was weird, so I grabbed them and brought them with me to our meeting. He never showed up, so afterwards, I drove to his father’s house, to return them. He owns, like, two pairs of shoes.” Alex laughs, think about times in the past she’s teased him for his footwear. He has a black pair of dress shoes and a dirty pair of sneakers, which have clearly seen better days. Detective Cole doesn’t share in her amusement. “His car was in the driveway, but he wasn’t home. So I called him, left a message, and continued on with my day.”

Detective Cole watches Alex, as if she can discover a chink in Alex’s story if only she looks hard enough. Maybe she can, but Alex has told nothing but the truth.

“Look,” Alex says. “None of this makes sense. We fell asleep around ten. How is Dr. Strand supposed to have gotten across the city, barefoot and without a car? How could he have broken into Thomas Warren’s place without alerting anyone? I’ve _seen_ Warren’s security team. And how could he have murdered someone without making any noise? How could he have walked away from the scene, through those _same_ security measures, covered in blood?”

Detective Cole takes in every single question with a frown. She answers with a question of her own. “Have you ever known Dr. Strand to have a history of violence? Instability?”

“There was an assault, in his past. He told me about it. The psychic was taunting him--he’d just lost his wife. He pushed her away from him. She fell and broke her wrist. Richard--Dr. Strand--said he paid for her hospital bills. And settled out of court when she tried to sue him for pain and suffering.”

“And you wouldn’t call Dr. Strand unstable?”

“Unstable, how? He...gets depressed sometimes. He’s been having trouble sleeping, lately, too. He wouldn’t tell me anything, but I heard him one night--I’m pretty sure he’s having nightmares. But I wouldn’t say that makes him unstable.”

“No,” Detective Cole says. She takes one last look at the notes she’s made on her phone. “It wouldn’t.”

It looks as if she shakes herself out of her thoughts. “Well, thank you for your time. If I have further questions, I’ll be in touch.”

“You can’t seriously think he did this,” Alex says. “He--Dr. Strand is not a murderer.”

Detective Cole nods and continues on her way. Leaving Alex once again at a loss for what to do.


	4. Sunday

**17:05 - Present Time**

Billy Hanson hasn’t worked at the Glenndale Memorial Psychiatric Care Facility--or, as he likes to call it, the Glenndale Looney Bin--for very long. And he doesn’t plan to. He’s counting on his video production company taking off, taking him along with it. Far from the drooling lunatics slumped down in their chairs. Far from the unamused nurses, with their pursed lips and no-nonsense white tennis shoes. Far from the apathetic doctors, who duck in and out of patients’ rooms, prescribing medications based solely on information on a clipboard.

But, so far, his views on YouTube are in the hundreds. Until people finally take notice, until they finally realize his creative genius, Hanson is stuck here, pushing the same metal cart through the same white hallways. Delivering pills in tiny paper cups to people already doped up to their eyeballs.

The patient in room 214 is a strange one. No stranger than the rest, not really. But he’s the only one in room 214, in a hospital overflowing with patients. And he’s spent every hour since they brought him in handcuffed to the bed. Which is weird, Hanson thinks, because the man doesn’t move. He doesn’t even talk. Not one word.

Why would anyone handcuff a catatonic man to a bed?

Rumors have been going around, of course. The nurses talk, huddled together at the nurses station. The man is supposed to be a doctor. He’s supposed to have written books, given talks. He also, supposedly, was brought in under 5150 because he stabbed himself in the hand with a rollerball.

Stress must have gotten to him, Hanson figures. He must have snapped. Or something. Now, he’s strapped to a bed with padded restraints, off in La La Land.

Hanson rolls his cart into room 214. “Knock knock.”

The man doesn’t respond. Not that Hanson expects him to.

He could be handsome, in a certain light. But underneath the yellowed florescents, stuffed inside a hospital gown, all of the residents at Glenndale look pale and sickly. He has full, dark hair, greying a little at the temples. A face full of dark stubble after a few days of not shaving, which under any other circumstance might make him look roguish. His eyes are a freakishly bright blue. He stares, hardly blinking, up at the ceiling.

“Got your meds, here,” Hanson says.

Hanson shakes the paper cup, hoping to catch the patient’s attention. 

The man’s eyes slide slowly to look at Hanson.

Hanson shivers.

“You just have to take your meds and I’ll get out of your hair.” Hanson comes closer, moving slowly. “I’m going to help you up so you can take them. Then you can go back to...whatever it was you were doing before. I’m sure you’ve got, uh, plenty of stuff to think about.”

He places his arm around the patient’s back, helping him to sit up. The man is like a dead weight, but Hanson is used to this by now. With a now practiced motion, he holds the paper cups to the man’s lips.

“C’mon, dude. They won’t let you out of here if you don’t take the pills. If you’re good, they might even take off the cuffs before your 72 hours is up. So, c’mon, open up.”

The lights flicker.

Hanson shakes his head. Ancient old building is going to fall over on top of people one day. But not Hanson, he reminds himself. He’s going to have made it big _long_ before then.

“Open,” he says. “Don’t make me force you, dude. It’s not fun for me, it’s not fun for you. Let’s just get this over with. I’ll even put on the TV before I leave.”

The lights flicker again, the fluorescents making a buzzing noise. The TV turns on, blaring a channel full of snow.

“What the--?” 

The channels flip, each one flashing across the screen, allowing only one word of dialogue to get through.

A daytime soap opera. “You--”

A children’s show, teaching the ABCs. “--R--”

A talk show. “--going--”

A cooking show. “--two--”

A cartoon with giant robots shooting lasers. “Die!”

Hanson looks down to see the patient in his eyes smiling. Grinning. Much too wide for his face.

“Holy fuck,” Hanson says, jumping away from the man. The cup of pills falls from his hands, spilling them across the room. “Are you--are you doing that?”

The channels flip faster, each one landing on the same word, over and over again.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

The patient clenches his hands, rattling at the restraints. The bandage on his left hand turns scarlet with blood, the wound underneath reopened. The restraints pull, the metal links groaning. All it would take is one good rip and the metal will snap, Hanson is sure of it.

The man shouldn’t be that strong, but he is. He fucking _is_.

And his expression. Holy fuck, his expression. Evil lies behind those bright blue eyes. True evil. And his smile, stretched impossibly wide, distorts his face into something inhuman.

Hanson runs from the room, barely remembering to take the cart with him. He slams the door closed to the sight of the patient watching him, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

 

**23:00 - Present Time**

Richard Strand closes his eyes. But the shadows still persist.

He can feel them. Their touch is like ice. They brush against his skin, taunting him. Letting him know they still exist. They will always exist. He cannot escape.

Restraints at each of his ankles, across his chest, and the new, reinforced cuffs at his wrists ensure he couldn’t escape even if he had full control of his body.

_Give in._

Strand clenches his eyes shut against the voices. But they refuse to stay silent.

_Give in_.

_Let him in_.

_You know you want to_.

_No more pain_.

_No more suffering._

_Just give in._

He shakes his head, over and over again. He wants to cry out, tell the voices to leave him alone, but they speak, echoing louder in his head, their words reverberating throughout his body.

_Give in, Richie._

_Why don’t you just give in?_

_Why fight?_

_What do you have left to fight for?_

A vision of Alex appears at the forefront of his thoughts. Her smile. The sparkle of the chase in her eyes whenever they track down a new lead. The warmth of her mouth on his. The taste of her skin. The sound of her laugh whenever he says something unexpected.

_Alex doesn’t love you._

_Even if she did, she could never love you now._

_You’re broken._

_Beyond repair._

Strand shakes his head again. He fights against the restraints, but they keep him locked in place. His breath comes faster, his heart pounds in his chest.

_But he can fix it, he can fix anything._

_He can take it all away._

Strand opens his mouth, but still nothing comes out. Phantom hands clench tighter around his throat.

A warm hand touches his arm above the restraints.

Strand’s eyes fly open. He tries to flinch away from the touch, from the unknown hand on his arm, but he cannot move.

A skinny young man with mousy brown hair hovers over him. His eyes are wide, intense, but there’s a certain softness around them, an understanding.

“Shh, Dr. Strand. It’s me, Simon.” the young man says. He brushes hair back from Strand’s forehead. “I know it hurts. I can’t take it away, not yet, but I can help you sleep.”

Strand tries once again to fight the restraints when Simon holds up a hypodermic needle. He doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to face the nightmares.

The voices hiss in his ears.

_Simon._

_Simon._

_Sssimonnn._

Simon cards a hand through Strand’s hair, calming him. “No dreams, I promise. Just sleep. It’ll shut out the voices for a while.”

The drug flows cold through his system. But in an instant he feels warm, weightless. The voices are quieter, as if someone has stuffed cotton in his ears.

Simon continues the movements of his hand in Strand’s hair. Until darkness closes in around him.


	5. Monday

**09:04 - Present Time**

“Did you hear?” Stephanie asks. She holds a stack of paper against her chest as she waits for the copy machine.

“Hear what?” Peter asks.

“About Dr. Strand? It was in the news.”

At Strand’s name, Alex stops to listen.

Peter looks down, frowning. “He’s a suspect, right? In Thomas Warren's murder?”

Stephanie huffs, looking disappointed. She holds the stack of paper tighter to her chest. “The _only_ suspect. I _knew_ that guy was nuts.”

Peter’s frown deepens. “Doesn’t mean he did it, Steph. Do you really think Dr. Strand is capable of something like that? I mean, the guy is the biggest nerd I’ve ever seen.”

“Nerd or not, _I_ think he did it. You heard him ranting about Warren being the Advocate. He could have snapped or something--”

Stephanie closes her mouth when she notices Alex watching them. 

Alex crosses her arms, unable to keep the scowl off her face. “As aspiring investigative journalists, I expect you to understand such terms as ‘alleged,’ ‘slander,’ and ‘innocent until proven guilty.’”

Stephanie blushes, all the way to the roots of her auburn hair. “Sorry, Ms. Reagan.”

“Sorry,” Peter murmurs. His eyes flicker to Stephanie, who studiously avoids his gaze. “Won’t happen again.”

“You should focus on your work instead of gossip,” Alex says. She turns and leaves the room, trying to control her fury. She can’t lose her temper with a couple of interns, but she also wants to shake them, to tell them in no uncertain terms Strand is innocent.

“Ms. Reagan?” Peter says. He jogs to catch up with her. “I’m really sorry. It’s just...is there anything I can do? To help?”

Alex turns unexpectedly, stopping Peter short. “I appreciate it, Peter. I really do. But we’re doing all we can right now.”

“If anything comes up, could you let me know?” Color rises in Peter’s cheeks. “Dr. Strand is kind of a hero of mine. I really look up to him. So if there’s anything, anything at all...”

Her anger cools somewhat, going from a roiling boil to a simmer in the back of her mind. Alex smiles as Peter rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

 

**12:37 - Present Time**

Alex manages to get a few hours of work done before she finds herself checking news sources for more information about Strand.

Nothing recent has been published by credible sources--they mostly say the same things, over and over. How Thomas Warren was discovered, murdered in his bed, by his housekeeper. They introduce Strand as the police’s top suspect. They say he’s being held for questioning, but they can’t confirm if he’s been formally arrested for the crime.

Amateur sleuths and conspiracy theorists have much more to say. Alex has no idea how they find out their information, but she reads through several forums where they discuss Strand’s father, how he died in an ‘accident.’ They bring up Strand’s arrest when he was sixteen. And when he was arrested again twenty years ago for Coralee’s ‘disappearance.’

They know information about the Strand Institute--how it can no longer pay the million dollar prize. They theorize where the money could have gone when the Institute only employs one full-time researcher. Could Strand have conceivably spent the entire million dollar prize keeping the Institute open? Or could he have squirreled it away for himself, counting on no one ever winning the prize, counting on no one ever finding out the prize doesn’t exist in the first place?

The Black Tapes Podcast is mentioned in each of the forums. The internet detectives attempt to analyze Strand’s personality, citing instances where Strand has lied, or gotten upset, as proof Strand is a sociopath, or a psychopath, or just a man capable of murder. One user even tries to argue demonic possession.

They all think he did it. They all think he murdered Thomas Warren. But more than that, they claim Strand could be a potential serial killer. Starting with Bobby Maimes when Strand was a teenager. They believe Strand could have killed his father, made it look like an accident. They have proof now via Alex’s podcast that Coralee is alive, but all agree the evidence points at Thomas Warren being Strand’s third victim.

If Strand was angry about the breach in his privacy before, as a semi-public figure, he’ll be furious now. His rocky past is on full display, for everyone to see. His reputation has been thoroughly dragged through the mud. 

Alex’s phone rings. The office phone, not her cellphone. By the ring, Alex knows the call is coming from outside the building.

She cringes before leaning over to pick it up. Nic is supposed to field the calls from their listeners. There are some messages of support, but overall, the callers want to know what will happen to the podcast when Strand is thrown away for murder or whether their podcast has any legitimacy now that their subject has shown himself to be a violent criminal capable of stabbing a man thirteen times in his bed. Others simply want to berate Alex for not seeing the truth about Strand sooner.

“Hello,” she says. Her shoulders are already bunching around her ears, as if the words she hears will come at her like a physical blow. “This is Alex Reagan at Pacific Northwest Stories. How can I help you?”

“Alex,” says a familiar voice.

Alex nearly drops the phone, but she manages to hold onto it with both hands, like a lifesaver. “Coralee?”

“I called because I don’t have time for coded messages. Richard is in trouble.”

“I know,” Alex says, “but what can I--”

“I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to you.”

“What?”

There’s a sound like Coralee holding her hand over the microphone. She murmurs to someone in the background. “Alex,” she says, volume returned to normal, “find Simon. Simon Reese. He can help.”

“Where? Where can I--?”

“I’ve got to go,” Coralee says. “Don’t try to call this number.”

The phone clicks and the line goes dead.

Alex sits for a full minute before she dials the number back. She gets three tones and a computerized voice telling her, “I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service.”

“Fuck,” Alex says. She puts the receiver back in its cradle.

What the hell could Coralee have meant by saying she’s done what she can? What is Alex meant to do now that she’s done it? And Simon? Alex hasn’t heard from the young man since he left the voicemail telling Alex about the apocalypse she supposedly unleashed. Where is she even supposed to start looking for him?

As frustrated as she is by the call, Alex feels a renewed energy. She has more questions than she does answers, it’s true. But Alex has never shied away from a challenge. Her spirits lift, her shoulders straighten. She picks up the phone with the intention of making a few calls, her pen and her recorder at the ready.

Finally, there is something she can do to help.


	6. Sunday

**13:17 - 23 Hours Earlier**

This isn’t happening. This _cannot_ be happening.

It’s gone.

It’s _all_ gone.

Everything from the Thomas Warren murder case. The knife. The blood. The skin and hair samples. Fibers taken from Thomas Warren’s penthouse.

Someone managed to hack into the server and wipe all trace it ever existed. And the physical samples? Missing. Stolen.

Mitch Palenski hangs his head in his hands. His boss is going to kill him. His boss is _literally_ going to wring his neck.

“This can’t be happening,” he says out loud, for good measure. He knows it won’t bring the evidence back, but he takes a peek between his fingers, all the same.

Nope, still gone.

He is _so_ fired. And he can kiss his future job prospects goodbye. He might as well have burned the money he spent on his degree, for all the worth it will have now.

 

**16:23 - 20 Hours Earlier**

After an exhaustive search of the forensics lab, Detective Aritra Cole stands in front of District Attorney Chao Lee. 

Lee looks at her, hands folded on the desk, his dark eyes sharp, hawk-like. “So?”

Cole resists the urge to shuffle her feet like a child. She stands straighter and looks him in the eyes. “We don’t know how it happened--”

“You don’t know?”

“We checked the security tapes. We had our IT guys take a look. There’s no trace--”

Again, he interrupts her. “No trace? None at all?”

“All records were wiped clean. It’s like it never existed at all. IT says it’s the work of a sophisticated hacker, but that doesn’t explain how the physical evidence could have gone missing.”

“Someone from inside?” Lee asks.

“The forensic tech is just a scared kid. Almost wet his pants when I questioned him. He said no one else had access to it. And according to chain of evidence, he was the last to handle it.”

“So, what you’re telling me is you were robbed? By the same person or persons who hacked into our system?”

“It...seems that way, yes.”

Lee sighs. He straightens a stack of paper on his desk. “And Strand? Is there any way--?”

Cole shakes her head. “At Glenndale for another 24 hours.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Nothing. By all accounts, he’s basically gone catatonic. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.”

“Not likely to give us a confession, then.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Cole says, wincing, “no.”

Lee frowns and sits back in his chair, hands once again folded in front of him. “We don’t have enough evidence to charge him. No way a jury will convict without any proof.”

“We still have 24 hours,” Cole says. “We can--”

“What, Detective Cole? You think Strand’s lawyer is going to let you pursue a case without any proof? She’ll wipe the floor with you, Detective.”

“But--”

Lee holds up his hand, counting on his fingers. “One. We don’t have a motive.”

“On Alex Reagan’s podcast, Strand mentioned he thought Thomas Warren was someone called the Advocate, that he was watching him and his family.”

“You have a case for libel, not murder. And considering you can’t libel the dead, you don’t even have that.” Cole holds down another finger. “Two. We don’t have the means. If Alex Reagan’s statement is correct, Strand was with her on the night of the murder. Without access to a car--or shoes--he couldn’t have made it across the city in time to commit the murder _and_ be found miles away, on the side of the road.”

“The blood--” Cole argues.

“There are wooded areas along that stretch of road. Without the blood tests, Cardena will argue he butchered an animal.” Lee waits for Cole to argue, but she keeps her mouth shut. “Three. Thomas Warren employed an armed security team. His building has a doorman and several cameras throughout the building. No jury will believe that Strand, in a questionable mental state, was able to sneak his way into Warren’s penthouse, avoiding _all_ detection. Both on his way to and from the murder. Someone would have noticed a man stumbling around, covered in blood.”

Cole clenches her fist against the niggling doubts she’s had ever since she spoke with Alex Reagan. It’s true, the timeline doesn’t add up. And even before the evidence was stolen, Cole was unable to place Strand at the murder scene. But if she’s anything, she’s a woman who sticks to her convictions. And Strand? She can’t get the image of his face out of her head, at the moment when he stabbed himself with the pen. He’s a complete psycho.

“And the fact someone went to a lot of trouble to erase all of the evidence against Strand? To make it look like it never existed?”

Lee straightens the same stack of paper. “That, I can’t explain. It’s possible Strand has friends in high places, but from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t have many friends, at all. Could be the real murderer panicked and deleted everything associated with the Warren case, whether it was evidence pertaining to them or not.”

“But, sir. You didn’t see him when they brought him in. You didn’t see him when he fucking _stabbed_ himself. He didn’t even scream. Strand is obviously a psychopath.”

Lee stares at her, hard. “Let it go, Detective. You don’t have a case to stand on. Strand is under 72 hour observation at Glenndale. If they decide he’s a psychopath, they can take it from there. So, let it go, and go catch the real killer.”

Cole clenches her fists hard enough to leave half-moons in her palm with her nails. “Yes. Of course.”

Cole leaves, knowing she’s just been dismissed. She returns to the station, at a loss for what to do, where to go. Unless she can find something damning on Strand, she’s back to square one. 

 

**16:45 - 20 Hours Earlier**

District Attorney Chao Lee waits twenty minutes after Detective Cole leaves to make the call. 

It rings on end before finally going to voicemail. He waits for the computerized voice to tell him to leave a message, not expecting anyone to have picked it up in the first place. “Hey. It’s Lee. You _owe_ me.”

He hangs up, placing the receiver down in its cradle none too gently. He twists the ring on his right hand, the gold signet ring he keeps as a reminder of the old days. Of how easily he was swept up. In secrets and ritual and idealist garbage about saving the world.

It had taken everything he had to break away, to change his identity, start a new life. But just as he thinks he’s finally free of it, just as he believes he’s left it all behind for good, he receives a coded message from another former member, asking him for help.

Lee hadn’t been able to refuse her. Not after she’d helped him to escape. After she, herself, had escaped.

He can only hope he’s done the right thing, helping her. And that his own past doesn't come back to haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if DA offices are open on Sundays, but I'm going with the idea that if crime doesn't sleep, neither do its prosecutors, so if it's a little unbelievable, we'll just call that artistic license, ahah.


	7. Tuesday

**06:16 - Present Time**

Ruby is already waiting in the lobby of Pacific Northwest Studios when Alex arrives at work. She’s biting her nails, her hair falling over her eye.

“Hey, Ruby,” Alex says. She gestures for Ruby to go before her as Alex badges them into the building. She can hardly wait until they’re both in her office to speak, desperate for news. “Have you heard anything?”

“They’re letting him go.”

Alex feels all of the tension she’s been holding for the last few days rush out of her. She falls into her chair behind her desk. “Thank God.”

Ruby remains standing. She bites again at her nails. “He’s...been in the hospital.” 

And just like that, Alex’s anxiety ramps up again. “Is he okay? What happened?”

“He’s not hurt...not really. But they thought he could be a danger to himself or others, so they held him for 72 hours at Glenndale Memorial.”

Detective Cole’s words from the other day come back to her. Her questions. Have you ever known Dr. Strand to have a history of violence? Instability?

It’s not the Richard Strand Alex has come to know. Violence? Maybe, perhaps. Back when he was traumatized by the loss of his wife. Pushed to the brink of his sanity, he’d pushed back. But unstable? Enough of a danger to himself, to others, to be placed in a mental hospital?

“But they’re letting him go?” Alex asks.

“The police don’t have enough evidence to charge him with Thomas Warren’s murder. And they’ve been giving him medication at the hospital. He’s been sleeping a lot. They think he had some kind of psychotic break, but he should be better now.”

“Jesus,” Alex says, sitting back in her chair. “I didn’t know--I didn’t know how bad it was. No one would tell me anything.”

Tears collect at the corners of Ruby’s eye, but she brushes them away, impatient. “I’m his emergency contact, but they would hardly tell me anything. I’m not family.”

“And Charlie? Cheryll?”

Ruby shakes her head.

How could they abandon him? How could they leave him, knowing he needed their help? They’re support?

“Fuck them,” Ruby says, saying aloud the exact sentiments Alex feels. “I came to ask...I know you two are close. I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me, to pick him up?”

“Yes, of course,” Alex says. She retrieves her purse from under the desk. “We can go now, if you want.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Ruby says. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her jeans, to keep from biting them again. “I, uh, had another favor to ask, before we go.”

“What is it?”

“Ms. Cardona, Dr. Strand’s lawyer, says he might need looking after, for a while. At least until he adjusts to his medication. But I need to get back to Chicago, to take care of things at the Institute. It’s been crazy with everything that’s been happening and I--and I--” 

Ruby looks as if she might break down with the stress of it all. But she holds it together. “Can you stay with him? Please?”

“I’ll stay with him,” Alex says.

Ruby’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you.”

Alex places her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder and squeezes. “Come on. I’m sure you’re just as anxious to see him as I am.”

 

**08:30 - Present Time**

They rouse him in his sleep. Two men, standing over him, wearing bright white scrubs. 

One of them says, “Alright, sunshine, time to wake up. Someone is here to pick you up.”

For a sleep addled second, Strand thinks he means someone is here to pick him up bodily. He wants to ask where they’ll be taking him, for what purpose, but his throat closes up, tight.

He almost resists when the men place their hands on him, but they only help him to sit up. One places hospital slippers on the floor by his bed. The men help him to stand, to slide his socked feet into the slippers. They guide him out of the room.

He’s weak, after lying for so long in bed. He’d been restrained for a large portion of time, but after Simon...or the hallucination of Simon’s visit, he’d slept. And when he woke, the restraints were gone.

He doesn’t know how long ago that was. He’s completely lost track of all time. He could have slept for a week, a month, a year. 

He _still_ feels sleep pull at him, even as he shuffles through the bright hallways of the hospital. His limbs are heavy, difficult to move.

It strikes him he could be dreaming.

Is he so far gone he can no longer distinguish his dreams from reality?

The voices are quieter, underneath the medication. But they still taunt him. They tell Strand the two men holding him upright are taking him somewhere to kill him. They show him an image of himself being held down on a table, being injected with toxins. They show him an image of himself writhing on the table, unable to scream, bloody foam dribbling from his mouth. 

The voices tell Strand to kill the men before they can kill him.

Strand leans more heavily into the man on his right. The one who called him ‘sunshine.’ 

The man looks over at him, shifts his weight to support more of Strand, no malice in his eyes. Only bored apathy.

If they intend to kill Strand, he will put up no resistance. He’s much too tired. He closes his eyes and lets them take him where they will.

 

“Is he--is he okay?”

The voice is familiar, even if the tone is not. It sounds as if it’s laden with concern, which of course cannot be right. He is used to exasperation, annoyance. Polite acquiescence when he asks her to take care of a task.

He doesn’t open his eyes. He’s convinced now he’s dreaming. He slumps a little more in the strong arms of the men holding him between them. They grunt and heft his weight, holding him up more firmly.

“Some medications make patients feel fatigue,” says another voice. “It should wear off in a couple of weeks as his body becomes more used to it. If it persists, you should have him talk to his psychiatrist.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s just fatigued,” another voice. Another familiar voice. Warm. He wants to wrap himself in the sound of it. “He looks completely out of it.”

“Yes, well, we did what we could in a 72 hour period. If he has concerns about side effects of his medication, again, he should speak with his psychiatrist.” 

“He doesn’t have a psychiatrist,” says the first voice.

“I highly recommend he sees one, Ms. Carver. Mental illness such as this doesn’t go away. It needs to be treated with medication. It’s a miracle, at his age, he hasn’t been hospitalized before.”

The warm voice again. “What mental illness?”

A pause. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars outside of family.”

“I’m his emergency contact. Alex is his girlfriend. We’re the only family he’s got.”

“I’m afraid I will need to be firm on this. I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously. If he wishes to tell you, he will.”

“Fine.” There it is, the exasperation he’s used to. “Can we take him home now?”

“I’ll have Brian and Rick help you get him into the car. Are you sure you’ll be able to carry him once you’re home?”

“We’ll be fine, thank you.” The warm voice is quieter now. He wants to open his eyes, to look at her, to find out the cause of her distress, but he’s afraid if he does the dream will twist into a nightmare.

The men begin to move again, mostly carrying him at this point. His feet move mostly on autopilot. A door opens and they step out into the soft fall of rain. It’s cool against his heated skin. He tips his head up as they walk, catching raindrops on his face.

Is this what it feels to be baptised? Each droplet upon his skin feels like a blessing. Not from God, because of course he doesn’t believe. But still holy, nonetheless.

The voices hiss behind his eyes. His head begins to pound. His lets his head fall forward. Walks until a car door opens and the men arrange him in a seat.

...is he meant to drive?

But no, the car starts, someone else at the wheel.

“Don’t worry, Richard. We’re going to take you home. Rest, okay?” The owner of the warm voice cards her fingers through his hair.

He allows himself to fall asleep to the soft conversation of the two familiar voices, with the rumble of the road beneath him. The other voices, the hostile voices, protest in his ears, but he shuts them out.

 

**09:20 - Present Time**

Nic and Geoff are already waiting at Strand’s father’s house when Ruby and Alex arrive. Nic and Geoff help to get Strand out of the car and up to the house. Alex, blushing a little when she catches Nic’s eye--it’s obvious this isn’t her first time in Strand’s bedroom--turns down the comforter on Strand’s bed. They arrange Strand’s long, heavy limbs onto the mattress.

“Thanks, guys,” Alex says. “We’ll take it from here.”

“You sure?” Nic asks. “He’s not...dangerous, is he?”

Ruby turns on him. “Are you kidding me? Does he look dangerous to you?”

Nic holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just worried about Alex staying with him, all alone.”

“Pretty sure she’s got this,” Geoff says. “If she needs help, she can always call, right Alex?”

Alex bristles. She doesn’t need Geoff to speak on her behalf. But she takes a deep breath. She needs to keep it together for Strand. “Right.”

Ruby ushers them out of Strand’s bedroom. The front door opens and closes, marking their departure. Alex sits on the edge of Strand’s bed, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He looks exhausted, even in his sleep. His hair is greasy, his face shadowed with stubble. He’s still wearing the pajamas given to him at the hospital, a loose T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants which hang low on his hips without a drawstring to hold them up. Alex covers him with the comforter, tucking him in like her mom used to do for her when she was sick. She places a kiss on his cheek and leaves him to sleep.

Ruby is sitting at the kitchen table. She has the pill bottles provided by the hospital lined up in front of her, while she taps at her tablet. “Can you believe this?”

“What?” Alex asks. She pulls a Diet Coke out of Strand’s fridge. She offers one to Ruby, who shakes her head.

“They’ve got him on Seroquel and Lamictal.”

“I don’t know what those are,” Alex says. She sits down at the table with Ruby.

“One’s an anticonvulsant and the other is an antipsychotic. Both are used to treat Bipolar I and schizophrenia.” 

Alex swallows around the lump in her throat. “So they think...?”

“One or the other, yeah,” Ruby says. She puts down the tablet and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “But he’s not. I’ve spent nearly every day with him since I was _fifteen_. I would have _noticed_ if he--if there was something wrong.”

Alex hates to say it, hates to put it out there in words, but they come out anyway. “He’s been depressed, lately. On and off. He’s had trouble sleeping. Maybe...maybe something set it off?”

Ruby shakes her head. “He’s not sick, Alex. And now they’ve basically sedated him.”

“We can try to get a second opinion,” Alex says. “Can you make an appointment for him?”

Ruby is already tapping at the screen of her tablet. “Yeah. Even if--if they--they can at least put him on something different. Something that won’t knock him out, make him so _fatigued_.”

The way she says the last word, Alex knows she’s mocking the doctor who discharged Strand.

Alex leaves Ruby to do her thing. She’ll have to go back to Chicago soon, but for now, Alex is glad she’s here. While they may have started off on the wrong foot, Alex is happy to have someone else around who cares for Strand. Who considers him family.

She enters Strand’s bedroom to find him curled up on his side. His eyes are open. When he sees her, his brows draw down in confusion, as if he doesn’t recognize her. He opens his mouth to say something, but all he can manage is to mouth her name.

“They told us you’re having trouble speaking. At the hospital.” 

Strand rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Alex takes this as an affirmative. She climbs onto the bed beside him. She urges him closer to her, so she can put her arm around him. He buries his face in her shoulder and lets her hold him.

When they first started...whatever it is they started, it was just about sex. For Alex, it was a release, a way to relieve stress. For Strand, she figured it was much the same thing. But she quickly discovered he was so touch starved, so desperate for affection, she could just hold him and he would be happy. For him, it wasn’t about the climax, but having a connection with someone.

Whatever it was when they started, it became something else entirely. Ruby hadn’t exactly been wrong when she called Alex Strand’s girlfriend. They just haven’t gotten around to putting any labels on it yet. Neither of them have confessed to having feelings for the other. They’re waiting, perhaps. To see where it goes. To find out what happens when they no longer have the podcast between them.

Alex strokes Strand’s hair in the quiet of his bedroom. She holds him until his breathes turn soft and slow, until he relaxes back into sleep. She holds him for a long time, needing the contact, the reassuring solidness of him in her arms. She holds him until Ruby knocks on the door and peeks her head inside, telling Alex it’s time for her to leave for the airport.

Alex disentangles herself from Strand and waves to Ruby from the porch as her rental car backs out of the driveway and makes it’s way down the road.


	8. Wednesday

**PART TWO**

**02:03 - Present Time**

Alex lies awake next to Strand, unable to sleep after the events of the day.

It isn’t as if much has happened in the time since they brought Strand home. He slept most of the day away, waking irregularly, often with a gasp which might have been a scream if he could speak.

There’s nothing actually wrong with his voice. No bruises around his throat to indicate any injury, no swelling. The doctor said it’s psychosomatic, that his voice should return once he’s ready to speak.

His silence reminds her of Simon Reese. How he became mute after an act of violence.

But Alex shakes that thought away. Strand may have been found covered in blood, holding a knife, but there’s no way he could have hurt someone the same way Simon hurt his parents. Strand was _afraid_ of Thomas Warren, afraid of what the other man might do to his family to get to him. But he wasn’t out to kill him. Alex would _know_ , Alex would have _seen_ something. 

Besides, she tells herself, the police let him go. There wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him.

Strand shifts beside her. He kicks at the comforter.

Alex sits up. She swipes a lock of hair away from his sweat-soaked brow. “Richard, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a nightmare. Wake up.”

Strand’s eyes open so suddenly, it startles Alex. 

He looks at her with eyes not his own. Still bright blue, but nothing like the empty eyes he’s stared at her with since he’d come home from the hospital. And certainly not the cool, intelligent eyes he’d greeted her with the first time they met. Something dark lurks in his gaze, now. Something altogether frightening.

Alex swallows against her fear. She’s just imagining it. The shadows she sees are due to the darkness of Strand’s bedroom, lit only by the light of the moon shining through his window. “Richard? Are you alright?”

He smiles and Alex’s fight or flight response completely fails. She freezes, caught in the sight of it stretching far wider than any smile Alex has ever seen from him.

He rolls over, hands on Alex’s upper arms, holding her down. Alex struggles, but he’s strong, so strong.

“Please,” she says, “Richard, stop this. You’re scaring me.”

He ducks his head, bites at the tender meat of her shoulder, making her gasp. He soothes the hurt with a swipe of his tongue.

Strand has _never_ bitten her before. He’s a gentle lover, all soft caresses and tender kisses, completely dedicated to bringing her pleasure, not pain.

She manages to push at his chest, forcing him away from her.

He goes, hovering above her.

Something wars behind his eyes. A mixture of horror and glee. It makes Alex’s skin prickle. She shivers. 

“Please,” she says again. She cups the side of his face, sweeping her thumb over his cheekbone. “If you’re still dreaming, you need to wake up.”

He nips at her fingers, then abruptly turns his face away. His arms begin to shake.

Without warning, he tears himself away from her. He throws himself out of bed, crashing into the dresser on his way into the en suite bathroom. He slams the door behind him and the lock clicks.

Alex takes a moment to pull herself together, before she gets out of the bed. She pads over to the bathroom door and knocks. 

No answer.

Just breathless, choking sounds.

“It’s okay,” Alex says. She feels stupid saying so--things are obviously not okay--but she doesn’t know what else to say. “You didn’t hurt me.”

The only response she gets is the squeal of pipes and the rush of water as the shower turns on.

 

The shower runs for twenty minutes. Then thirty. 

The door remains locked. Alex’s knocks go unanswered.

Her fingers tremble as she unlocks her phone, already imagining the worst.

The phone rings twice before it’s picked up. A male voice, gravelly with sleep, answers. “Hello?”

“Geoff? It’s Alex. Alex Reagan.”

A pause. His voice goes from sleepy to alert in almost an instant, “Has something happened? Are you hurt?”

Bruises have already blossomed on her arms. But Alex doesn’t mention that. “Dr. Strand locked himself in the bathroom. The shower is running, but I can’t hear anything through the door. It’s been almost forty minutes, now, and I’m afraid--what if he’s done something? What if he’s--if he’s--”

“Hey, hey,” Geoff says. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be right over. Do you want me to bring Nic?”

Nic will only give her an ‘I told you so’ stare. Alex isn’t sure she can handle it. But she’s technically taking Geoff away from Nic and it doesn’t feel right to ask him to come alone. “Just come. Quickly.”

“You got it.”

 

He doesn’t bring Nic. When Alex opens the door for him and gives him a questioning look, he grins, a little sheepish. “Figured you’d have called Nic if you really wanted him to be here.”

“Thank you,” Alex says. “And I’m sorry to have woken you so early in the morning.”

“Any changes?” Geoff asks. He’s about average height--still taller than Alex, but much shorter than Strand. His green eyes are intense, but the messy brown hair which falls over his forehead softens the image of him. He _feels_ like the type of person you could rely on in a crisis. Alex immediately feels better about her decision to call him.

“No,” Alex says, leading him back through the house toward Strand’s bedroom. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I’ve been talking to him through the door. He can’t answer, but I didn’t want him to think he was alone.”

“Good, that’s good. Let’s see what we can do to coax him out.”

The shower is still running when they enter the bedroom. Alex knocks on the door to the bathroom. “Richard, I brought someone to help. His name is Geoff--you remember him?”

No answer.

Geoff gestures at the door, asking for permission to approach it. Alex moves out of the way.

“Hey, man,” Geoff says, “Dr. Strand, right? We haven’t actually properly met. You were asleep at the time. I’m Geoff. Alex asked me to come by and see if there’s anything I can do to give you a hand.”

Still no answer. Not even a splash of water.

Geoff glances back at Alex, before turning back to the door. “Okay, Dr. Strand. You’ve got Alex pretty worried. I’m not going to break the door in, but I am going to take it off its hinges. Okay?”

To Alex, he asks, “Do you know where he keeps his tools?”

Alex’s smile turns up on one side, “I, uh, think they’re Ruby’s tools. But they should be in the basement. I’ll go get them.”

She takes the steps down to the basement two at a time, uncaring of her own safety. She grabs Ruby’s toolbox from the workbench and races back up the stairs.

Geoff is typing on his phone when Alex returns. He rubs the back of his neck. “Just, um, updating Nic on the situation.”

Alex blanches, but hides it by opening the toolbox. “What do you need?”

“A hammer and a wedge. Or a nail. Whatever’s in there.”

Alex doesn’t know what a wedge looks like, but a hammer and nail are easy enough to find. She hands them to Geoff. She watches as he gently taps each pin out of it’s hinge. Because the door is locked, he has to tease the door out of its frame.

As soon as the door is gone, Alex rushes in. She doesn’t know what she expects. Blood, maybe. Strand sprawled out on the floor. But the floor is wet with nothing but water. The shower curtain is open and sitting under the spray, still fully clothed, is Strand. “Oh, Richard.”

Alex turns off the water. It’s gone freezing in the time since he entered the shower. His eyes slide over to her only after the spray has stopped. He shivers, teeth chattering.

“Here,” Geoff says from behind her. “Let me get him out of the tub.”

Alex backs out of the bathroom, watching from the door frame as Geoff hauls Strand up, soaking wet.

“Can you get him a towel?” Geoff asks.

Alex takes one from the linen closet while Geoff wrestles with Strand’s dead weight. He pulls the sweatpants down, over Strand’s hips, to land, sopping wet, in the bottom of the tub. He sits him down on the toilet to remove his shirt. He rolls the hospital socks off of Strand’s feet, removes the wet bandage from his hand, and throws everything into the tub.

Alex wraps the towel around Strand’s shaking body. She dries him off as best she can, ruffling the cotton through his hair until it sticks up at odd angles.

While Geoff maneuvers Strand from the bathroom to his bed, Alex collects a pair of pajamas from Strand’s dresser. She takes another pair out for Geoff, his clothes now soaked through after handling Strand.

Together, they help Strand dress. They lay him back down on the mattress and Alex piles the comforter and spare blankets on top of him, to warm him up. She can only hope he hasn’t made himself sick. The last thing he needs is to catch a cold.

Geoff goes off to the guest bathroom to change. He comes back in a T-shirt too big for his muscular frame and a pair of sweatpants he had to hike up and cinch tightly with the drawstring, inches of fabric still spilling over his feet.

He nods his head toward Strand, curled up and still shaking beneath a mountain of bedding. “Do you think you’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. She sits beside Strand, rubbing her hand up and down his back. “Thanks again for coming this late.” She pauses, looking at the red numbers on Strand’s alarm clock. “I guess you could say early, at this point.”

“No, it’s no problem. I’m glad you called.” He glances at Strand. “I can stay. If you need me to.”

Alex shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. Go back to Nic. I’m sure he misses you.”

His brows draw downward, doubtful.

“Really,” Alex says. “I promise, I’ll be okay from here.”

“If you’re sure. Call me or Nic if anything happens.”

Alex walks him out with another promise to call if things take a turn for the worse.

She should do something about the mess left in the bathroom. The door still leans against the wall of Strand’s bedroom. The floor is puddled with water. Instead, she climbs back into Strand’s bed. Despite the heaviness of the blankets, she slips underneath. She places an arm around Strand’s body, still racked with shivers, and pulls him close.

“You didn’t hurt me, okay?” she whispers, nuzzling her face in the wet hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m fine, see? Please don’t do that again. Don't lock me out. You had me so worried. I didn’t know what to do.”

He doesn’t answer, not in words. But he takes her hand and presses it in his. It’s the first response she’s gotten from him since they picked him up from the hospital.

Alex sighs in relief. She kisses the back of his neck and holds him tight.


	9. Friday - Afternoon

**14:11 - Present Time**

Alex spends the next two days continuing her search for Simon Reese. It’s difficult, because Alex has no idea where he could be. The Three Rivers State Hospital in Idaho has reported an escaped patient, but so far, nothing has come of it. The police have issued an all-points bulletin, but no one has seen a young man of Simon’s description. Simon has no money, no identification, no job prospects, no place to go. He could conceivably be _anywhere_ in the United States.

She looks up as the door to Strand’s bedroom opens. There haven’t been any incidents like the one on Wednesday morning. And he looks to be doing better. He still sleeps a lot, but he looks less sedated, less vacant, when he’s awake. He can do little things on his own, like go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, change his clothes. Alex has to coax him to eat, but he feeds himself, slowly, mechanically, like he can’t even taste it.

Which might be for the better. Alex has never been able to put cooking on the list of things she does well. They’ve been subsisting off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and canned soup for the last few days.

“Hungry?” Alex asks, putting her laptop to the side.

Strand shakes his head. No sign yet he’s ready to speak. With his hand injured, he can’t even write down his responses.

“Is passed lunchtime,” Alex says. “I was just about to make something.”

He shakes his head again and wanders over to the recliner, where he somehow manages to fold his entire frame in the seat, long legs pulled up against his chest. He sighs and stares out at nothing.

Alex frowns. She’s grateful he’s up and about, but she’s worried about him. It will be weeks before he can see the psychiatrist Ruby made his appointment with. How is he supposed to live this half-life until then?

Alex gets up from the sofa and busies herself in the kitchen. She slathers peanut butter and jelly onto bread, making a sandwich for Strand and herself. She holds out the plate to him for a long moment, until he takes it and balances it on the arm of the sofa.

He’ll forget it’s there if she lets him.

“Please, eat,” she says.

He mostly tears the sandwich into pieces, but a few bites make it into his mouth. 

Alex sighs and washes up after she’s finished with her own sandwich. When she returns to the living area, she finds Strand gone from the recliner.

She has to remind herself not to panic. Strand does this occasionally. He wanders the house. Like an amnesiac, he touches things as he goes by, looking at everything with such detached disinterest, it’s almost as if he doesn’t recognize anything at all. 

Alex looks for him, going from room to room. Her heart starts to pound when she doesn’t find him in the bedroom or the bathroom. He’s not in any of the rooms on the first floor. Or the second. He’s not on the third floor, where each room is empty of everything except boxes of his father’s possessions. She nearly trips down the stairs to the basement, but he isn’t there, either.

The front door is locked. The windows all latched. Which doesn’t explain how she finds him on the front porch, staring out into the grey skies, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain.

“You scared me half to death,” she says, coming to stand beside him. “How in the world did you get out here?”

He shrugs.

“Really? You have no idea?”

He shrugs again.

“Did you want to go somewhere? I can take you, if you want.”

He opens his mouth. When nothing comes out, he frowns, frustrated by the failure of his own voice. He breathes out. He sits on the steps of the porch.

Alex takes this to mean he doesn’t want to go anywhere. Perhaps he only wanted to get some fresh air?

Thunder rumbles in the distance. A cool breeze sweeps through, pulling at Alex’s hair. She puts it up in a messy ponytail and sits down beside him. 

“It’ll rain soon,” Alex says. “You once told me you like the rain. Is that why you’re outside?”

He looks at her with unsure eyes, like he isn’t sure why he came outside in the first place.

Alex puts her hand on his, thumb sweeping back and forth over the new bandage wrapped around his palm. He closes his eyes, briefly, enjoying the contact. He’s avoided her touch over the last two days. Afraid, perhaps, he will hurt her again.

She’s taken care to wear shirts which cover the bruises on her arms. She doesn’t want him to feel guilty--more guilty, rather, than he already feels.

Alex reaches out with her other hand, cupping his jaw. She means to say something, but he tilts his head and slants his lips over hers.

He doesn’t pursue it, just presses his lips softly to hers. He squeezes her hand and retreats, getting up from the porch stairs. He holds out his uninjured hand, helping her up. She follows him back into the house. She makes sure to lock it, however, checking to make sure the lock catches, that it can’t somehow be opened while the lock is in place.

No matter how much force Alex exerts, no matter how she turns the handle, the door stays shut. Could Strand have some hidden trick for getting the door open? Could he have unlocked it and somehow locked it again? His keys are still on the hook by the door, but it’s possible he has a spare hidden outside.

Alex watches Strand, but for the rest of the afternoon, he tucks himself into the recliner. He holds a book on his lap, but for the most part, he doesn’t read anything from it. He stares down at the pages as Alex watches a marathon of Disney movies on Netflix, the volume turned down low. After an hour, he falls asleep like that.

 

**17:24 - Present Time**

She finds him down the street this time. The wind howls through the trees. The sun has completely disappeared behind clouds so dark they’re nearly black. It hasn’t rained yet, but it feels as if it will come down at any moment.

Alex has to shout to be heard. “Richard, come back inside!”

Is the darkness which shutters his eyes due to the storm? Or the same darkness she saw the night he bit her?

Alex takes a step back.

Lightning flashes. A tall shadow towers over Strand, standing just behind him.

Lightning flashes again and the shadow is gone. 

Strand tilts his head, as if listening to something far off. An unnatural smile curls his lips, much too wide, full of malice. He starts toward her, stalking her like a predator hunting its prey. 

Alex takes another step back, and another. She almost turns to run, her heart already pounding in her chest, fear singing in her veins, but Strand stops. He shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge something. He clutches at his head with his hands, fingers pulling at his hair.

Thunder crashes. Alex flinches.

When she opens her eyes, a mousy-haired young man stands between her and Strand. 

He turns, looking at her through intense eyes, eyes she hasn’t seen since their interview at Three Rivers State Hospital. “Hello, Alex.”

“Simon?”

“I heard you were looking for me.”

“How did you--? Where--?”

He isn’t given the chance to answer, if he planned to answer, at all. Simon turns and holds a hand up as Strand looks up, Strand’s expression turned murderous. 

“Stop,” Simon says. The word is heavy with command, even though the younger man has barely raised his voice. “You shouldn’t listen to them. They’re lying to you.”

Strand’s eyes narrow. He sneers and takes a step toward Simon, but Simon stands firm. “Dr. Strand. I know you’re in there. You need to take control now.”

Strand blinks, frowning. But his expression changes back, almost immediately, so fast it’s nearly staggering. 

“I’m not here to hurt Alex, Dr. Strand. But they’ll make _you_ hurt her. She’ll end up just like Thomas Warren. I know you don’t want that. So take control. Now.”

“What do you mean, like Thomas Warren?” Alex asks. But both Simon and Strand ignore her.

Strand shakes his head again. His eyes go wide, frightened.

“Shut them out.” Simon says, “You’re stronger than they are. Take back your control.”

Strand staggers and falls to his knees on the pavement. Wind tears at his hair, at the flannel he wears over his T-shirt. Alex tries to go to him, but Simon holds her back.

“Wait,” he tells her. “He’s fighting for control.”

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“I know. But I’m here to help.”

“But how? Is this why Coralee wanted me to find you? So you can help Richard? With--with whatever this is?”

“Dr. Strand is the key,” Simon says. “But I’m not here because of that. I’m here to help. Because there was no one to help me.”

“Help you with _what_ , Simon? What is going on?”

“He wants Dr. Strand to let him in. The Adversary. We can’t let that happen. Or all is lost, Alex Reagan.” 

Alex wants to demand more answers, but Strand slumps forward, his forehead against the pavement, breathing heavily.

Simon looks up, scanning the sky. There’s no urgency in his voice when he turns to Alex. “We should get him inside. Before it rains.”

Alex and Simon help Strand to his feet. They half-run back to the house, up the porch steps. Simon herds Strand into the house while Alex closes and locks the door behind her.

Outside, the heavens open with a crack of thunder. 


	10. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non explicit descriptions of smut.
> 
> Also, Strand is...a bit of a pessimist. To put it one way.

**20:45 - 6 Weeks Earlier**

Alex has never been particularly talented at painting. She's tried following a few of Bob Ross’s videos, back when she moved into her first apartment, just as she was starting her career in broadcast journalism. She thought she would need a hobby, something to occupy her time when she wasn’t at the PNWS station. That was before her job became her whole life. Before she knew she would be living, breathing, each story, until the very moment it aired. 

She swirls a bit of yellow into a lopsided circle. She dots her canvas with squiggle clouds. She blends two shades of blue to create a sky. Without any thought to perspective, Alex paints two large flowers, daisy-like, with huge petals and stems bent like question marks. As an afterthought, she adds a tree, a green and brown smudge, which blurs into the surrounding colors. She fills in the rest with spiky, green grass.

Bob Ross, she is not.

“I know you don’t believe,” Alex says. “ _But_ , what if what Simon said is true? What if we did something by playing the Mysterium? What if we--”

“Brought about the end of the world?” Strand finishes her question for her. He lies on his front, head pillowed on his arms. He’s clad in nothing but boxer shorts, Alex’s artwork a riot of color across the expanse of his back.

“Well, yeah, I guess.” It’s a question that’s eaten at her for the past few weeks, but when he utters it, it sounds incredibly stupid.

Strand hums in answer.

Alex cleans her paintbrush in the cup of cloudy water on the bedside table. She runs the wet brush over his ribs, making him wriggle. “Use your words, please.”

Strand sighs. “If you could truly open Hell’s gates using sound bytes played weeks apart, then I suppose the world ends.”

“Just like that? And there’s nothing we can do to stop it?”

“Consciousness is a suicide machine, Alex. The human race has been hurtling toward its own extinction since modern cognition developed in early _Homo sapiens_. Through war, climate change, the willful destruction of our own habitat--it was always going to end.”

“You really believe that?” Alex asks. “No wonder you get so depressed.”

His shoulders move in something like a shrug. “We should treasure what we have now, rather than waste our time believing paranormal nonsense. If the world were going to end due to something you played on your podcast, it would have happened already.”

His words are just so Strand-like, they make Alex smile. “So I should just stop worrying about it?”

Strand hums again.

Alex puts her paints and paintbrush on the table. “What do you treasure?”

“My work,” he says. “Charlie. Cheryl.”

“Coralee?”

“To an extent.”

“Even though they all left you?” Alex regrets asking as soon as the question leaves her mouth. She’s undone all of her work. Strand tenses beneath her, where she sits straddling his waist.

“I--” He swallows. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex says. “I shouldn’t have--”

Strand shakes his head. “I also treasure Ruby. And...you, Alex.”

Heat rises in Alex’s cheeks. She leans forward and presses a kiss to his temple. “I treasure you, too.”

Strand buries his face in his arms. The back of his neck turns scarlet. 

Alex laughs. When they started sleeping together, she never imagined how easy it could be making him blush. She runs her fingers through his hair.

He sighs, rumbling in pleasure.

“I think the paint is just about dry, now. Should I wash it off?”

“Have you taken a picture?” he asks.

Unplugging the phone from the charging cable, Alex retrieves the device and snaps a quick picture of her work. She shows it to Strand.

He laughs. “It is fortunate you already have a successful career in journalism.”

“Did you just tell me not to quit my day job?”

“Essentially.” He rolls over, gripping her waist so as not to dislodge her.

“You’re going to get paint all over your sheets,” she says.

“I don’t care.”

His hands travel up from her waist to cup her breasts. She’s wearing a cotton sports bra, but his thumbs unerringly find her nipples. He teases at them with his nails, until they harden under his touch.

Alex rolls her hips. He’s only half erect, but she can change that in a heartbeat. All she needs to do is grind down.

Instead, she presses a kiss to his lips. “We don’t have to, you know.”

She hadn’t planned on sex. She wanted something more meaningful than their usual hurried coupling. Not that Alex is complaining about the stolen moments in her office, his dick pressed against her ass as he shoves his hand down her jeans, two fingers working inside her while she fights not to moan out loud. Or Alex on her knees in a supply closet, sucking him off as he steadies himself on a shelf when his knees start to quake. Or when he takes her up against a wall in his father’s house.

Lately, however, she’s noticed how much he craves simple touch, but how hesitant he is to initiate any kind of contact himself. He leans into her hand when she cups his jaw, curls his fingers into hers when she reaches out to touch his hand. But unless she touches him first, he refuses to cross whatever boundary he imagines between them.

She researched it and the closes thing she’s managed to come up with is touch starvation. She’s read blog posts for non-sexual activities to try, beyond cuddling in the brief afterglow of sex.

Hence, the paint.

He stares up at her, brows drawn down as he frowns in incomprehension. “We...don’t?”

He looks almost suspicious.

“I thought we could just be together, without, you know, being _together_.”

A flash of hurt goes through his eyes. “I don’t understand. Are you--Am I--Am I not--? Before you, it--it’s been a very long time and if--if I--”

Alex finally understands what he’s getting at. “No, no, no. You’re great. Really. I promise that’s not it.”

He doesn’t look the slightest bit relieved. If anything, he looks more distressed. “Then...why?”

She can’t tell him the true extent of her feelings for him. Neither can she tell him she’s doing it because she wants to help him. He’ll make up some excuse, tug his clothing back on, and head down to the basement. Where she won’t see him again for the next few days, at least.

She leans forward, lying on his chest with her chin pillowed on her arms. She smiles. “It’s still one hundred percent on the table. But I thought--I just wanted you to know, it doesn’t have to be _just_ that. If you want to stay here, like this. It’s peaceful, don’t you think?”

He still looks anxious. Alex leans in to kiss him, lingering until he sighs into the kiss. He returns it, slow, languid, like he could spend the next few hours doing nothing but this. 

“I--yes. It is. Peaceful.”

“So you don’t mind?” Alex asks.

“No. This is--this is good.”

Alex smiles. She spreads out, so she’s lying more fully on top of him, covering his body with her own. “I think so, too.”

They stay like that, skin to skin, talking softly. Gradually, Strand loses the look of distress. He relaxes underneath her when he realizes she’s just as content to lie with him, carding her fingers through his hair, as she is fucking him. 

Alex counts it as a win. 

She’ll pull him into the shower later, to wash off the paint. He’ll take her from behind, Alex braced against the tile, his fingers digging into her hips. He’ll pound into her until Alex’s cries echo around them. Until Strand spills himself inside her with a ragged, broken sound. They’ll clean each other up, taking turns rubbing soap into the other’s skin with a tenderness that was never there before.

And for the first time, Alex will stay the night with him.

Alex will count it absolutely as a win.


	11. Friday - Evening

**18:19 - Present Time**

The voices clamor in his head. They echo, the sound growing in volume the more he tries to resist.

“You cannot give in, Dr. Strand.”

Strand opens his eyes to find himself on the recliner. Alex sits beside him, balanced on the arm of the chair, her hand clutching almost painfully at his. Simon Reese stands not far off, his intense gaze focused on Strand.

It was Simon who spoke.

“They’ll use you to hurt Alex. They already used you to kill Thomas Warren.”

“What?” Alex says, grasping more tightly to Strand’s hand. It hurts--he never imagined she could be so strong--but the pain pulls him out of his head, grounding him. “Richard--Dr. Strand. He _couldn’t_ have killed anyone.”

“But he did,” Simon says. “Didn’t you, Dr. Strand?”

 _He knows_ , the voices say.

_He’ll turn you in._

_They’ll take you away again._

_They’ll lock you up._

_Drug you until you can no longer function._

_We can make him go away._

Strand turns pleading eyes on Simon. _How do I make them stop_?

The medication had worked, briefly. The voices were still there, but muted. He could tune them out. But they broke through, the more his body became accustomed to the medication. They-- _he_ hurt Alex. He lost time. He found himself, twice, in places he hadn’t been when he last closed his eyes.

Strand breaks away from Alex, throwing himself up and out of the chair. He paces, hands pressed against his temples.

He _wanted_ to hurt Alex.

He nearly _strangled_ Simon. The _need_ to shut the boy up was overwhelming. He wanted to watch the life leave Simon’s body, just like, just like when he…

Strand wants to scream. He settles instead for scrunching his eyes closed, until dark spots dance behind his eyelids. He pulls at his hair, gripping it in huge handfuls.

He _killed_ Thomas Warren.

He remembers being with Alex. Falling asleep in her arms.

He opened his eyes not to Alex’s bedroom, but the bedroom of Thomas Warren. Standing there, fully clothed, except for his shoes. He remembers looking down to see the knife clutched in his hand. He remembers blinking, seeing blood drip from the blade into a puddle on the floor.

He remembers the long stretch of road. Walking until the officer pulled onto the shoulder. He remembers asking for help. His last words before the voices took away his ability to speak.

He’s trembling. In the here and now, he’s shaking. 

_We can take away the pain._

_Make you forget what you’ve done._

_We can take it away._

_All of it._

_Just let him in._

Alex watches Strand with concern. 

Is that pity in Simon’s stare? Or understanding?

“They used you,” Simon says, voice soft. “But it wasn’t really you.”

Strand shakes his head. His teeth rattle, chattering in the sudden cold.

Alex leaves the room, heading for Strand’s bedroom.

Good. She should leave. Get far away from him while she still can. Before he hurts her again.

 _Good,_ the voices echo. _She should leave. Get far away from you while she still can. Before you hurt her again. Before she_ makes _you hurt her again. Nosy little bitch._

Strand shakes and shakes. He wraps his arms around his middle. _Shut up. Shut up. **Shut up**_ **.**

“I killed my parents,” Simon says. “I didn’t want to, but they made me. I thought I did it. For years, they made me think it was my fault. That I was punishing them for what they did to me.”

Alex returns, carrying a blanket. Hesitantly, she approaches. He doesn’t want to let her, wants to tell her to run, but Simon gives a little shake of his head. Strand allows her to wrap the blanket around him. Alex walks him not to the recliner, but to the sofa. She sits him down and curls her body against him, sharing her heat.

Instinctively, he leans into her.

He’s exhausted. So exhausted.

And she’s there. She’s right there, with him. In spite of all he’s done.

“They took my voice away, too. But I got it back. _You_ can get it back, too, Dr. Strand.”

“How?” Alex asks. “And what do you mean, they took away your voice? Who is they? What are you even talking about?”

“They,” Simon says. “The voices. Agents of the Adversary. You have been calling them demons. But they’re far, far worse. They’re like parasites. They posses their host, take control of their body. Make them do things, hurt the people they love.”

“You’re saying Dr. Strand is possessed?” Alex finds Strand’s hand and squeezes it, but he isn’t sure if it’s for her own sake or for his. “Like, actually fucking needs-an-exorcism possessed? That’s not possible.”

“It is. Dr. Strand is like me. Like Sebastian Torres. Like the other children, fed to the agents of the Adversary from their infancy. But Dr. Strand is special. He’s the key. And he was protected until now. Because he didn’t believe. But the more he investigated with you, Alex Reagan, the more doubt began to seep in. Isn’t that right, Dr. Strand?”

Strand turns his face away, unable to admit to the chinks in his shining armor of skepticism. The more Alex challenged him, the more she pushed, the more he _saw_ , the more she _believed_ , the more doubt began to nag at him.

Twelve tapes he could argue not having the right equipment to investigate properly.

But _hundreds_ of tapes, the memory of what he saw when he was a child, the constant fear he felt until his father beat it out of him, the dreams he had as a teenager, which led him to the body of Bobby Maimes…

He doesn’t want to admit it. It goes against everything he’s fought for for the last twenty years. But doubt began to whisper questions in his ears. Questions he had no answers to.

Alex presses herself against his side. In fear? Forgiveness?

_You’re a murderer._

_You’re not worthy of forgiveness._

“And you?” Alex asks. “You were possessed? When you killed your parents? It was like you said, the murderer was you, but not you?”

“Yes,” Simon says.

“And you couldn’t speak because...the demons took your voice away?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not possessed now? That’s why you can speak?”

“I refused to let them have any more power over me. They _stole_ years of my life. But they won’t settle for that with Dr. Strand. They’ll take and take until there’s nothing left. Until he has no choice but to give in.”

“Give in to what? Why, out of all of you, is he supposed to be so special?” Alex asks.

“Dr. Strand is the Adversary, Alex Reagan.”

Something explodes in the back of Strand's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *PNWS BOOM*


	12. Friday - Night

**21:12 - Present Time**

“No, no, no, no,” Alex says, straddling Strand’s lap, her forehead pressed to his. She holds his face between her hands. “Come back. Please, come back.”

His eyes are open, but he’s gone empty again. Lifeless.

Worse, even, than when she and Ruby picked him up from the hospital. Or the time she and Geoff pulled him out of the shower.

Simon hovers nearby. “I--sorry. That was too much, all at once, wasn’t it?”

Alex turns to glare at him. He takes a step back, hands up in surrender. For the first time since Alex met him, he looks uncomfortable. She can see just how young he is. And just how much of a front he’s put on for their benefit. 

He bites his lip. “I didn’t mean to make him go away like that.”

Alex sighs. “I know, Simon. Do you have any idea how to bring him out of it?”

“No. I don’t know. I think...we have to wait.”

“Okay.” She should be asking a thousand different questions, but she’s tired. All the way down to her bones. “Can you help me get him to lie down? Here is fine.”

They spread him across the sofa. Alex tugs at the blanket still wrapped around him so it covers him more fully.

At least he’s stopped shaking.

Simon stands awkwardly nearby. He’s very skinny, with smudges underneath his eyes dark enough to rival any of them. Where has he been since his escape? How has he been managing to keep himself fed? Where has he sought shelter during the night?

She checks her watch. It feels late, but it’s not even ten. She rubs at her aching eyes. “Can I get you anything, Simon? Food? Water? I can make up one of the guest rooms if you want to get some sleep.”

Simon looks down at mud-caked sneakers. He’s dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of a sleeping cat and text that reads Big Mood in all caps. In the hospital, he’d worn a plain white T-shirt, sweatpants, and slide-on slippers--nearly identical to the clothing Strand wore during his stay at Glenndale. Where could he have gotten new clothing? Taken off a line in someone’s backyard? Stolen out of a drier in a laundromat? 

Alex waves him toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ve got soup and I can probably manage to grill a cheese without burning it too much. We can camp out here until Strand wakes up.”

It feels good having something to do when she feels so helpless otherwise. Strand, the Adversary? Literally Satan? How can that even be possible? She knows Strand--he’s not some otherworldly being bent on bringing chaos and destruction into the world. Everything he is is centered around enlightenment and order. He even makes his bed every morning, in spite of her teasing and attempts to tempt him back into it.

But if what Simon says is true, Strand murdered a man in his bed. He stabbed him thirteen times.

The Strand she knows couldn’t have done something so awful. But the Adversary could.

Alex shakes her head and turns the grilled cheese. It takes a couple of attempts, she’s afraid of the stove and unless it’s to push eggs around a skillet to form dry, overcooked scrambled eggs, she hasn’t quite learned her way around a spatula. The soup is easier. Open a can of Campbell's, pour it in a pot, wait until it’s hot.

She serves Simon at the kitchen table and makes herself a mug of soup, as well. They sit together at the table, a strange mirror of the time they sat opposite one another at Three Rivers, with Alex’s recorder between them. Instead of her recorder, however, between them sits a stack of napkins in a wrought iron holder.

Simon eats hunched over his food. He tears the sandwich into pieces and dunks it into the soup. When he finishes, he gulps down an entire glass of water. Alex puts the dishes in the sink and refills his glass. “You can take it into the living room with you.”

Strand seems to be asleep. His eyes are closed, at least. And he doesn’t respond when Alex lifts his head and shoulders so she can sit down, his head in her lap. She cards her fingers through his hair. It’s something she knows he likes. It’s enough to even stop him in his tracks when his rants become a little too condescending. He’ll melt under her touch and forget what he was saying entirely.

Simon sits hesitantly on the edge of the seat on the recliner, holding his glass in two hands, like he’s afraid Alex will tell him to get off the furniture. She smiles wearily at him and he relaxes, if only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this chapter is a little short, I'm hoping to get a second one out sometime today.


	13. Saturday - Early Morning

**04:37 - Present Time**

Alex wakes with a start. She dreamed of darkness. Overwhelming, oppressive darkness. She dreamed Strand was lost in it, dreamed he was calling out for her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach him, couldn’t save him.

Simon is asleep, curled in the recliner, one foot dangling onto the floor. Alex looks down at Strand, head still in her lap.

He’s staring up at her.

“Hello,” Alex says, voice soft in the quiet of the house. “Did I wake you?”

He gives a slight shake of his head.

“Are you back with us?”

His nod is uncertain, but it is a nod.

“Thank God,” Alex says. She smooths the hair out of his face. “I’ll go make us some tea.”

She tries to shift him so she can get up, but Strand protests by rolling onto his side, his face buried in her stomach. He wraps his arms around her waist.

He holds on, tight, and breathes.

“I'm sorry,” Alex says. She rubs soothing circles into his back. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

He shakes his head and presses closer.

Helpless to do anything else, Alex cards her fingers through his hair.

It stops almost as soon as it starts. He pulls away, sits upright. His eyes are red-rimmed and framed with bruise-like purple. He scrubs at his face with the sleeve of his flannel.

He looks at his lap, avoiding her face, clearly embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” Alex says. She reaches for his hand and squeezes.

Strand returns the press of her hand and and gets up, a little unsteady on his feet. Alex follows him with her eyes as he goes down the hall to the guest bathroom. The door shuts with a soft click.

When he comes out, he looks a little refreshed, even though his hair is out of sorts. Some of it is slicked back and damp where he must have gotten it wet while splashing his face with water. The rest sticks up at all angles. But his eyes are clearer than she’s seen in a long while, focused and present. He continues down the hall and switches on the kitchen light.

Alex pads into the kitchen to find him filling the kettle with water. He puts it on the burner and pulls two mugs from the shelf, looking back at Alex and nodding at the coffee maker to see which one she’d like.

Smiling, she says, “Tea’s fine.”

They wait, leaning side by side against the counter, for the water to boil. When it does, Strand pours steaming water into each of the mugs, places tea bags in to brew, and gets out the sugar and milk for Alex.

Alex fixes her tea the way she likes it. Black coffee she can handle, but plain tea is a just a travesty. Of course, Strand looks at her the same way when he dumps heaping tablespoons of sugar and splashes heavy cream into his coffee.

They drink in silence, hands wrapped around their mugs. Alex can almost pretend everything is normal. That they're both sharing a quiet morning before they have to continue with their research into the Black Tapes. It's peaceful in a way life hasn't been since she got the call from Nic, telling her about Strand's arrest.

Strand puts his empty mug in the sink. He takes the half-full mug of rapidly cooling tea from Alex’s hands and puts it in the sink next to his. He scoops her gently into his arms. He leans his cheek on top of her head and rocks her back and forth.

Alex sniffles. She didn't realize she was crying.

She hadn’t realized just how overwhelming this entire situation has been until this one moment of calm. From the news of Warren's murder to Strand's arrest, to the 72 hour wait while Strand was held in the hospital, to taking him home, Alex has tried to be strong, to be there for him. But in the last five days alone, she’s watched him yo-yo between sleep and a sedated, zombie-like existence. She’s seen him behave completely unlike himself. She’s watched him break down, not once, but twice, into lifeless catatonia.

Alex pulls away once she’s reasonably certain she can hold herself together. “Sorry. I’m supposed to be here for you, not the other way around.”

Strand shakes his head. He bends downward and presses his lips just beneath each of her eyes. 

He's kissing away her tears.

She laughs, wetly, unable to keep fresh tears from brimming. “You’re such a romantic.”

He smiles, small and lopsided. But it’s the first smile she’s seen from him in over a week. He cups her cheeks in his hands and sweeps away the rest of her tears.

“I'm just...so glad you're back," she says. "I--"

He interrupts her, slanting his lips over hers.

He kisses her like a dying man. He licks his way into her mouth and she opens readily, tasting his desperation. She grips onto the sleeves of his shirt as everything narrows to the urgent slide of their tongues and their mingled, panting breath.

Strand breaks the kiss, but only long enough to grip her by the ass and haul her up, setting her down on the counter. They meet again for another kiss, just as demanding as the first. Alex wraps her arms around his neck. His hands tangle in the ruined remains of her ponytail.

He kisses down the column of her throat, making her sigh and tilt her head to give him better access. He pauses when he sees the mark he left on her shoulder, just a few nights before. The sight of it cools his ardor. He kisses the skin over it, soft and tender, in apology.

Alex opens her eyes, meaning to tell him she forgives him, to see Simon shuffling into the kitchen. He still looks half-asleep. He scratches his stomach through his shirt and drops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Alex tugs on Strand’s sleeve to get his attention. He turns to see Simon and puts reluctant distance between them.

“Hi, Simon,” Alex says. She tries not to think about how her cheeks are burning. Or the fact Simon caught them making out like teenagers. “Did we wake you?”

He shakes his head. And then, with a determined frown, says, “No.”

He looks relieved once the word has left his mouth. Like he wasn’t sure it would actually come out. He turns his intense gaze on Strand. “You’re back.”

Strand nods.

“And...the voices?”

Strand makes a seesaw motion with his hand. So-so, Alex interprets. 

“I’m sorry I broke you,” Simon continues. “I...have a hard time reading other people. But I should have known you were...fragile.”

In answer, Strand rummages around in one of the cabinet drawers. He takes out a pencil and small notebook, usually reserved for making shopping lists, and goes to sit at the table with Simon. Alex leans over his shoulder as he scratches out shaking, jittery letters with his uninjured right hand.

_Were you really at the hospital that night?_

“Yes,” Simon says. “I was there.”

_Thank you for helping me_ , Strand writes.

“How did you help him?” Alex asks.

“I gave him something. The voices were too loud. He needed to sleep.”

Alex’s eyebrows go up in alarm. “You drugged him? On top of what they were already giving him?”

Simon frowns. “What they gave him didn’t work. It _won’t_ work. Because Dr. Strand isn’t _sick_.”

Alex looks at Strand to find him deep in thought. He taps the pencil against the paper, nearly starting to write several times before he finally comes up with, _You think I’m possessed. By demons. As you were once supposedly possessed._

“I don’t _think_ ,” Simon says. “I _know_.”

_How?_

“I just know.”

Strand underlines his previous question. _How?_

Simon’s frown deepens. “You think I’m crazy.”

_Mental illness makes more sense than demonic possession_ ,Strand writes. _Because demons don't exist. Possession isn't possible._.

Simon turns his face away, frustrated. He looks back at Strand. “Mrs. Strand told me you wouldn’t believe me. But I’m not lying. I’m trying to help.”

Strand’s eyes widen with surprise and then narrow with suspicion. _You spoke with Coralee_?

“Yes. She told Alex to find me. But I came because she was taking too long. You would have hurt her. The voices would have made you.”

Strand’s grip tightens on the pencil. He writes, _I want to speak with her._

Alex swallows. This isn't the time to feel jealous. If Coralee has answers, of course Strand will want to speak with her.

“She won’t come here,” Simon says. “It’s not safe. She works for the Advocate. You aren’t fully in control.”

“Do you have a number? Some way we can contact her?” Alex asks.

Strand looks up, expression surprised yet grateful.

Alex smiles. She squeezes his shoulder in understanding and turns her attention back to Simon.

Simon shakes his head. “She contacts you. When you need her. She isn’t safe, otherwise.” 

“Did she reach out to you, Simon?” Alex asks.

“She found me. In my tent in the woods. She brought me food, clothes. She told me I could help. But I can’t help unless you believe me.”

Simon stands up. He shoves a hand into one of the many pockets of his shorts. He pulls out his balled up fist and places it on top of Strand’s notebook. “Mrs. Strand said to tell you she’s very happy you and Alex Reagan are together.”

When Simon draws his hand away, he leaves behind a gold ring, a large sapphire set in the center, diamonds sparkling on either side.

Coralee’s wedding ring.

Simon walks silently out of the room. Leaving Strand to stare down at the ring for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 5.31.17


	14. Saturday - Afternoon

**12:23 - Present Time**

Strand locks himself in the basement.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, back against the leg of a worktable, fingers toying with Coralee’s ring.

Every so often, Alex knocks on the door. She’s worried about him. Afraid what he’ll do when he’s all alone.

But he isn't alone. Not anymore. Not with the voices whispering in the back of his mind.

He pulls his legs up into his chest and stares hard at Coralee’s ring. As if it can somehow guide him.

But no answers come.

Just the echo in his head of voices not his own and the memory of Alex standing in the kitchen, tears falling silently down her face.

Guilt burns in the pit of his stomach.

He loves Alex. Strand can admit that to himself. But he refuses to kid himself into thinking their relationship revolves around anything other than sex. She’s taken care of him, held him, soothed him. But he hasn’t been able to take care of her needs. Not since any of this began.

He can only imagine why she’s stayed. She’s young. Clever. Beautiful. Full of life. It isn’t as if she can’t get from another what she gets with him. Without the tragedy. Without his sudden...mental difficulties.

Alex never asked for any of this.

He kissed her. He put everything he had into it. Everything he could to make her stay. He lifted her onto the counter, ready to get on his knees in the middle of the kitchen. To worship her. But also to beg, to plead with Alex to stay.

Until he saw the mark he made, during his madness. Bruises in the shape of teeth.

She should leave. She should go before he can hurt her again. Or worse.

He clenches Coralee's ring in his hand. The stones dig into his palm, grounding him.

He felt real grief seeing the ring upon the table. Pulled from Simon's pocket as if it were nothing more than a fifty cent trinket from a quarter machine.

Coralee sent it with Simon because she knew Strand wouldn’t believe the boy. She sent it as proof. Sent _Simon_ as proof.

But she also sent it with a blessing, in regards to his and Alex's relationship. To symbolize of the end of their marriage.

Can Coralee truly believe Strand is the Adversary?

Is it a coincidence the voices are quieter when his instinctive reaction to Simon’s claim of demonic possession is an explosion of outraged disbelief? Is the rise of his age-old skepticism what protects him, as Simon said?

Is the reason the voices have grown louder during the course of the day because he hasn’t taken any of the medication provided by the hospital? 

Or because of Coralee’s ring, sent to signal her endorsement of Simon’s claims?

Doubt eats at him each time his twirls the band between his fingers.

Alex knocks at the door. Strand glances at the staircase leading up to the house. She could easily break down the door. Or get her friend to take the door off it’s hinges, as she did before. But she doesn’t.

His phone buzzes against his breast. He digs it out of the chest pocket of his flannel.

A text.

From Ruby.

_Hey boss. Ur scaring alex. Can u pls let her knw ur ok?_

A second text appears directly after the first.

_R u ok?_

He hesitates. He could put both Alex and Ruby at ease if he sends one word. Three little letters.

Instead, he taps into Ruby’s contact information. He presses the icon to call her. He holds the phone against his ear and listens while it rings.

“Hello?” Ruby says. “Dr. Strand?”

Strand opens his mouth but the words won’t come. He closes it and sighs.

“Alex said you were still having trouble talking.”

He can neither confirm nor deny her statement. Why did he call her, when he knew he couldn’t speak? He can’t even rely on body language to get his point across.

Does he even have a point to get across? Or does he just want the opinion of someone who has never been afraid to share it, especially when she believes he’s making a mistake?

“Dr. Strand? Hold on, okay? I’ll call you right back.”

The line goes dead.

He doesn’t actually expect her to call back. What would be the point?

But his phone buzzes again. The front camera activates when he answers the call. Ruby’s face takes up the screen.

“Okay, so you can’t talk. And I’m pretty sure you aren’t down to do charades. But you can probably answer yes or no questions, right?”

He nods.

“Okay, so. Are you okay? Do you need help? Medical attention?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you call me because you need me for something?”

A nod.

“Do you need me to do some research?”

He shakes his head. 

Ruby frowns. “Is it anything related to the Institute?”

No.

“Is it related to Alex? Her podcast?”

He doesn’t know how to answer, so he just stares back at Ruby.

She pushes her hair away from her face, giving him a rare look at the ruined eye she hides beneath it. A large, ragged scar bisects her eyebrow, through her eye, all the way down to her cheekbone. Her tone, when she speaks, is hard. “Is she pushing you into anything you don’t want?”

A vigorous shake of his head.

Ruby’s expression softens. She lets her hair fall back over her face. “Okay, good. I didn’t think she would, but I needed to check.”

Ruby takes a moment to think. 

“It is Alex, though, right? Why you called?”

He shrugs.

“Does it have anything to do with the reason why you locked yourself in the basement?”

A hesitant nod. It sounds childish, when she says it like that.

“I think you already know what I’m going to say, boss. I know conflict is not, like, you’re strongest suit. But you need to stop avoiding whatever it is you’re avoiding. Go back up there and do what you need to--apologize, for one. You have people who care about you. Who want to help you get through this. But you have to let us.”

Strand looks at the wedding ring in his hand, then back up to Ruby. He nods.

Ruby smiles. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

The call ends. Strand hoists himself up from the ground, sweeping the dirt from his pajama pants. He pockets the phone.

He gives himself only a moment to steel himself before going up the stairs.

Alex is there when he opens the door, sitting on the floor, texting furiously.

She leaps to her feet as soon as she sees him. She throws her arms around him, nearly knocking them both back down the stairs.

“Sorry,” she says, her face buried in the wrinkled cotton of his shirt. “I know you probably just needed some time to yourself. But I couldn’t help but worry.”

Strand kisses the crown of her head in apology. 

Was Ruby right? Is it possible Alex truly cares about him? Perhaps _for_ him?

He takes her hand and leads her back to the kitchen, where the pad of paper and pencil still sit on the table. He writes something, the letters almost unreadable, written as they are with his non-dominant hand. He tears the paper from the pad and looks at Alex, head cocked in question.

“In the living room,” Alex says. “Watching TV.”

The volume is turned down low. Strand doesn’t recognize the cartoon playing on the screen, but Simon’s attention is rapt. He barely notices Alex and Strand as they enter the room. When he does, he picks up the remote and snaps off the television as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Dr. Strand?”

Strand hands him the sheet of paper. On it he’s written, _I've decided to believe you. Tell me everything._

Below that he’s written, almost as an afterthought, _I want my voice back_.

“Good,” Simon says. “We can finally get started. It’s...not going to be easy.”

Strand nods. He knows better than to expect easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Updated 5.31.17


	15. Saturday - Evening

**18:25 - Present Time**

They sit in the living room, an open pizza box on the coffee table. 

Strand, after emerging from the basement, wanted to dive straight in, but Alex insisted on ordering dinner first. Both Strand and Simon are much too skinny. And Alex refuses to talk about demons on an empty stomach.

She expects Strand to have a few bites and push the plate away, but he eats ravenously, as if he hasn’t had any food in a week. Which is essentially true, given how little he’s put in his stomach over the last few days.

Simon, who hunched over his food every other time she’s fed him, takes methodical bites of the pizza, eyes closed in pleasure, as if he needs to treasure every bite. He chews through the crust and eyes the remaining slices of pizza in the box.

Do they serve pizza in mental hospitals? How long has it been since Simon has had delivery? Ten years?

“Go ahead,” Alex says. “Take as much as you want. There’s another box in the kitchen and we can order more if you’re still hungry.”

He takes two more slices, but he watches Alex and Strand, as if they’ll object even after being given permission.

Alex busies herself with pulling the peppers from her own slice. Strand frowns, but not at Simon. He watches the boy eat and when Simon finishes what’s on his plate, he pushes the box toward him, offering him the last piece.

Simon looks at it longingly, but shakes his head. “Full.”

Strand shrugs, as if to say, ‘It’s here if you want it.’

They sit in silence, none of them knowing where to start.

“So,” Alex says. “What can you tell us, Simon? About Strand and the, um, Adversary.”

Simon bites his lip. “I didn’t lie, when I said Dr. Strand is the Adversary. But, it...might have come out wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not the Adversary _now_. But he could be. If Dr. Strand gives into the voices. If he lets the Adversary in.”

Strand shifts beside Alex. He’s uncomfortable speaking as if any of this is real, but he doesn’t write anything on his notebook to interject. Even if he doesn’t truly believe Simon, even if he’s just humoring the boy, he’s decided to listen. He nods, encouraging Simon to continue.

“The voices you hear are his agents. They were here before. They could slip through, one by one. But Alex Reagan opened the door. She allowed the darkness into this world.”

Alex clenches her fist. She tries not to let guilt overwhelm her. “So, I caused this? By playing the Mysterium?”

“Partly.” Simon smiles, a little sad. “People like my parents...are also to blame. People like the Brothers of the Mount. And the Order of the Cenophaes. They want to summon the Adversary.”

Strand scratches something on his pad of paper. He shows Alex, before presenting the pad to Simon.

“Tiamat?” Simon asks, squinting at the jagged scrawl.

Strand nods.

“No,” Simon says. “Not Tiamat. Those who follow Tiamat are not working toward destruction and chaos.”

Strand shakes his head. He holds out his hand for his notebook. Once Simon returns it, he hunches over it, writing as fast as he can with the wrong hand. 

_I don’t understand. How is the cult of Tiamat different from the BotM and the Cenophaes?_

“Think about the _words_ , Dr. Strand. Think about their meaning. An _adversary_ is an enemy. An _advocate_ supports a person. Or a cause. Thomas Warren was the Advocate. But he wasn’t a champion _for_ the Adversary. He was leading the crusade _against_ the Adversary.”

“But Thomas Warren was in the cult of Tiamat. Isn’t she a goddess of destruction?” Alex asks. “Wouldn’t Tiamat and the Adversary essentially be on the same team?”

“No,” Simon says. “Tiamat is a mother goddess, Alex Reagan. And like any good mother, she will destroy anything that threatens her children. _That_ is what they mean when they say she is both a goddess of creation and destruction.”

Alex’s head hurts. None of this is anything like what she was taught in Sunday school. Granted, her child-self had been much more interested in the candy they got at the end of each lesson than listening closely to what was being said. But she’s pretty sure the pastor never mentioned mother goddesses. And the only time she was ever truly worried about possession was after seeing The Exorcist. But even in her fright, she's pretty sure she knew somewhere in the back of her mind it wasn’t real.

But now Simon is saying it _is_ real. That he was once possessed and made to kill his parents. That Strand is currently possessed and...killed Thomas Warren.

Strand curls around the notebook, slowly writing. _I killed him because he was in the way. Of the Adversary._

“Yes,” Simon says. “It won’t give you any solace, but he was going to kill you, first. If you wouldn’t cooperate.” 

Alex remembers the security team who went after them with guns. How afraid she’d been until Coralee pulled up in that van and rescued them. “What do you mean, wouldn’t cooperate?”

Even though Alex asks the question, Simon’s intense gaze remains on Strand. “Your father knew you were special. He knew of the darkness inside of you. He wanted to save you from it. When he stumbled across Tiamat in his research, Thomas Warren sought him out. Brought him into the cult. He convinced your father sending you away was the best option, to keep you safe. And the world safe from you.

“But your father found out that Thomas Warren thought the best way to do that was to end the problem before it could begin. Your father was murdered because he refused to cooperate. Thomas Warren thought he could rely on Coralee to do what your father couldn't. When _she_ refused to cooperate, he planned to have her murdered, as well. She ran away before that could happen.”

 _He’s had plenty of time and opportunity to kill me_ , Strand writes. _Why hasn’t he?_

His shoulders are stiff. The same way they get any time she pushes him for information about his past, about his family. He's in pain, but trying not to show it.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Alex asks. 

Strand shakes his head. _I need to know_.

“Your staunch refusal to believe,” Simon says. “Your father instilled that in you for a reason. It bought you time. Convinced Thomas Warren you weren’t yet a threat.”

Strand’s eyes close briefly. All this time he hated his father, only to find out now how much his father has done to protect him. 

He writes, _Why hire me?_

“He needed the Horn,” Simon continues. “He underestimated how difficult it would be to find. He wanted Coralee to steal the paper your father wrote, but she could never find it. Or, if she did, she never showed it to him. So, when you and Alex approached him, he planned to take you by force. He wanted to threaten you and your family to make you continue your father’s work. When that didn’t work, when he discovered what lengths Coralee would go to to protect you, he tried to appeal to you through bribery. He knew your Institute was failing and he used that against you.”

“Why does he need the Horn so badly?” Alex asks.

“His machines. The ‘exorcism machines,’ as you call them. They worked when there were not so many demons in the world. But each time you played a piece of the Mysterium, the door opened further and further. With the door fully open, with demons pouring in, the machines aren’t enough to draw the darkness out anymore. Too many people have been infected with it.”

Guilt twists her stomach. When she set out to do her podcast, she never meant for any of this to happen. How could she have possibly known doing a story on a paranormal skeptic could bring about the end of the world? “You said it was like a virus.”

“Yes. And it will continue to spread, if we don’t stop it.”

“How? By finding the Horn ourselves?”

“Tiamat’s artifact should have enough power to close the door. It should neutralize the demons already on the ground.”

_And the Adversary?_

“With the door closed,” Simon says, “it should seal him away. You will need to deny him entrance until then. Or all is lost, Dr. Strand.”

With that last bomb dropped, Simon loses the grave look of a man bringing tidings of the end of the world. He looks between them, boyish and uncertain. “Can I--May I have some more pizza?”

“Yeah, Simon. Go ahead.” Alex turns to Strand, sitting rigid beside her. “Do you want anything? I can make some tea.”

Strand shakes his head. He stretches out his hand--it must have begun to cramp on him--before writing, _Tired. I’m going to lie down._

“Okay. Do you want me to come with you? This was--this was a lot to take in, I’m sure, and--”

Strand stands. He pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. He gives her a weak smile and shakes his head.

He needs time to himself. Alex understands. But she can’t help but worry. What if he shuts her out again? What if the voices take over?

What if they tempt him to let in the Adversary?

Alex smiles back at him. She takes his hand and squeezes it. She has to trust him.

Still, that doesn’t stop her from watching him with worried eyes and he makes his way back into his bedroom. Or keep her from staring after him, even as the door shuts with a soft click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much plot~~
> 
> Hopefully this kind of explains everything? I tried to force canon to fit the plot of this fic. Let me know if you see anything which super duper doesn't make sense and I'll try to address it.


	16. Wednesday

Wednesday

**14:14 - Present Time**

Alex sits cross-legged on the dusty third floor of Strand’s father’s house when a crash sounds downstairs. 

She checks her phone for the time and stretches. She places the stack of old papers back in the cardboard box they came from and stands. She pats down her jeans, sending a cloud of dust swirling around her.

She doesn’t race down the stairs as she did the first few times. Crashes from various parts of the house have become somewhat regular since Simon and Strand started working together. 

She finds them both on the floor in the living room, Simon sitting on Strand’s chest, looking at the older man with disapproval.

They both look at Alex as she comes down the stairs. Strand gives her the creepy, too-wide grin he does when he’s not in control. He tries to buck Simon off. Simon holds him down, Strand’s hands held above his head, and glares at him.

“You’re not hurting him, are you?” Alex asks.

“No,” Simon says. “And he wouldn’t feel it if I was. Not until he _takes control_.”

He says the last words to Strand.

Strand--or whatever is in control of Strand--only grins. He tries to roll out from underneath Simon, but however strong Strand is, Simon seems to be stronger.

“How is it today?” she asks.

Simon shakes his head. “Better, but not good.”

“Do you...need any help?”

Strand bares his teeth in a silent snarl.

“No,” Simon says, then, “Maybe. But he needs to learn how to do this himself.”

“Okay,” Alex says. She hates seeing Strand like this. She hates how _normal_ seeing him like this has become. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

She goes into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. She’s not really hungry, but restless knowing the only thing keeping a possessed Strand semi-in control is a scrawny eighteen year old. 

The shelves are empty except for leftover Chinese food. She’ll have to go shopping soon, but she’s loathe to leave the house when Strand isn’t fully himself. 

She could call someone. To come babysit. Or bring groceries to her. Nic, maybe. But she’ll have to explain the situation with Strand and Simon and she’s not looking forward to that, either. Both Nic and Ruby believe Alex is staying with Strand until he gets his medication in order. They both think Strand had some kind of psychotic break. They know nothing about the possession or the Adversary. Or Simon.

Alex sighs and rests her head against the cool metal of the refrigerator. How can she possibly even begin to explain? To either of them? Ruby will come back from Chicago if only to personally throw Alex and Simon out of Strand’s house. She’ll block all communication with him. And Nic will give her that look, the look that says she’s crazy for even _considering_ the idea the contents of the Black Tapes might be real. He’ll pull her off the podcast, force her to take another leave of absence. 

Calling either of them, at this point, is out of the question.

She turns, ready to check on Simon’s progress with Strand.

Strand is standing just behind her. His beautiful, bright blue eyes are not kind. 

Before she can call out for Simon, he presses into her space, forcing her back against the refrigerator. He places both hands on either side of her head, caging her in. A smile contorts his face into something gleefully hideous.

“S-Si--”

A hand moves to her throat, cutting her off. It squeezes, just enough to make breathing difficult, but not impossible.

Her eyes go wide in fear. She swallows and tries hard to push past her panic. Strand would never hurt her. She just has to get through to him.

“Richard,” she says. She looks into his eyes, hoping to see past the darkness to the man she knows is still there inside him. “Come back to me, please.”

The hand squeezes harder. Like breathing through a straw, she’s only able to pull in the smallest trickle of breath. 

“Richard,” she says, grasping at his shirt. “Help. Please.”

The smile on Strand’s face falters.

The smile returns almost as soon as it had gone.

His hand tightens around her throat until she can no longer breathe, no longer speak. Her hands fist in his shirt, but he’s too strong to push away. She tries to thrash, to kick at him, but he’s like a stone wall.

Just as spots start appearing in her vision, Strand lets go. He stumbles backward as Alex slumps, coughing, gasping, to the floor. He shakes his head, over and over, as he backs away from her, to the farthest corner of the room. He stares at her, horrified, mouthing the same, silent words on repeat.

_I’m sorry._

Simon runs into the kitchen and nearly skids out on socked feet. “Alex!”

“It’s okay,” she says, for both Simon and Strand’s benefit. “I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon says, going to her, hands hovering over her, checking her for injuries. “He jumped.”

Jumping, according to Simon, is how Simon traveled between locked rooms in the hospital. How he escaped from the hospital itself. It’s how Strand got into Thomas Warren’s bedroom without tripping any of Warren’s penthouse’s security measures and how she found him outside, despite the front door being locked. It’s how Simon was able to appear, seemingly out of nowhere, just in time to save Alex the last time Strand turned on her.

“Better, huh?” She means it to be teasing, but it comes out sounding bitter.

She could die here. Strand’s face, the face of the man she loves--twisted into something cruel and terrifying--could be the last thing she ever sees.

Despite no longer being in immediate danger, Alex’s need to flee is nearly overwhelming.

She swallows. Her throat burns. “I, uh--I need to go to the store.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Simon says, unable to hide the guilt in his intense stare. “Really sorry. I should have known he would jump.”

Alex tries to smile. “It’s okay. We’re almost out of food. I’ll be--I’ll be right back, okay?”

Simon bites his lip and searches her face.

“I promise,” she says. 

Unable to stay in the kitchen any longer, unable to even look at Strand, Alex pushes passed Simon.

A raw, choking sound follows her out of the kitchen. 

Alex blinks back tears and grabs her purse from the hook by the door. As the door closes behind her, Alex hears Simon’s voice saying, “This is why you need to learn to take back your control.”

**17:55 - Present Time**

Arms laden with grocery bags, Alex lets herself into the house. She’s not sure what she expects to find when she enters, but it isn’t Simon and Strand sitting across from one another at the coffee table, playing a game of chess.

They both look at her, but this time Strand doesn’t smile. His expression hidden behind a mask of nothingness, he pushes himself up from the ground and walks to her. Silently, he offers to take the shopping bags from her. Alex lets him and watches him retreat into the kitchen.

“Want to help me get the rest?” she asks Simon.

He follows her out to the car. Only when they are unloading the bags from the trunk does she ask, “How--was he? When I was gone?” 

Simon glances back toward the house. “Dr. Strand didn’t think you were coming back.”

“I’m sorry for being gone so long. I just needed--”

“--to get away for a while,” Simon finishes. “You don’t have to apologize.”

He laughs a little. It’s the first time she’s heard him laugh. Like Strand, it’s quiet, more exhale than anything. “Demonic possession can be pretty stressful. For everyone involved.”

Alex smiles and shuts the trunk. “You can say that again.”

Strand is putting away the groceries in the kitchen. He motions for them to put their bags down by the stove.

“Would you like some help?” Alex asks.

Strand shakes his head, not looking at her.

Alex comes up behind him and wraps her arms around him. He freezes, his whole body going tense. Then, he slumps in her embrace.

“I’m sorry I left,” she says into his back.

He covers her hands with his. He brings one up to his lips and presses a kiss to her palm before he releases her and turns around. 

Alex steps back as he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, torn from his notebook.

_It would be selfish of me to ask you to stay._

How long has he been carrying around this scrap of paper? How many times has he thought about giving it to her?

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

He pats the rest of his clothing, looking for his notebook and pen. He must have left them in the other room.

Alex has an idea of what he means to say.

“You saved me from them. You shut them out before they could hurt me.”

He shakes his head. His fingers brush the skin of her throat. She hasn’t checked, but she’s sure to have a bruise.

“You’re stronger than you think.”

He frowns.

Alex reaches out and smooths it away, a rueful smile tugging at her own lips. “Not like that. I meant, you’re strong enough to shut them out. Every time the voices try to make you hurt me, _you_ stop them. Which means you can beat this. I know you can.”

Strand closes his eyes. He breathes in, straightens his shoulders. When he opens them again, there’s determination there. He nods.

Together, they put away the rest of the groceries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 5.30.17


	17. Thursday

**PART THREE**

**11:42 - One Week Later**

Alex once again sits on the floor of the third floor, rifling through Howard Strand’s things. Dust motes hang in the air around her, highlighted by the light streaming in through the window. The sun warms the hardwood floor. Like a cat, she sits in that warmth, soaking it up as she struggles through the academic text open on her lap. She yawns and realizes she hasn’t comprehended a word of the last few paragraphs.

She sets the book down and stretches, arms up over her head. She rolls her head on her shoulders.

She needs a break. It’s just about time for lunch anyway.

Alex plops the heavy book down on a stack of others, sending up a plume of dust. She coughs and waves at the cloud to dissipate it. 

When it settles, Alex startles, her heart pounding in her chest, her hand settled over it in order to calm it.

Strand is sitting a few feet in front of her. He takes out his notebook and writes, _Sorry_.

He looks like himself. No darkness lingers in his eyes. His shoulders are tense, but that’s become normal for him these days.

Alex shakes her head. Strand popping up all over the house has also become strangely normal. 

Simon explained earlier in the week the difference between his method for shutting the demons out and a legitimate exorcism. The goal isn’t to get rid of the voices entirely, he said, but to maintain control in order to use the demons’ power to their advantage. It’s the reason Simon can still jump and why he’s strong enough to manhandle Strand when the demons take over. It’s the reason why, sometimes, early in the morning, Simon still looks like it’s a struggle to speak.

He assures her he has it under control, that he’s had a lot of practice suppressing his own demons, but sometimes Alex worries. What if she’s stuck in a house with two people overtaken by the murderous demons in their heads?

“I’m going to have to put a bell on you,” she says. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Again he shows her the notebook, the word _Sorry_.

“Does Simon know you’re up here?” Thus far, the demons have made it impossible for Strand to be anywhere near the third floor. The last time he tried to follow her up, he ended up throwing himself down the stairs--thankfully emerging with only bumps and bruises, but it was enough of a warning for him to keep away. 

Strand smiles, just a slight tilt of his lips. _No_.

“Is that...a good idea?”

 _I would not have come if I didn’t think I could maintain control_.

“I know,” Alex says. “I know you wouldn’t put me in danger. But won’t Simon worry?”

Strand shifts closer. He leans in to press his lips to hers. 

He writes, _I left him chopping vegetables for lunch. We have a few minutes until he comes looking._

Alex laughs. As grown adults, are they seriously sneaking around like teenagers? In Strand’s own house? 

Granted, they haven’t had a lot of time alone since Simon’s arrival. During the day, while Strand and Simon sequester themselves, working out the kinks in his control, Alex spends her time on the third floor searching for the location of the Horn of Tiamat. At night, they each retire to separate bedrooms, just in case Strand slips during the night.

Strand cups her cheek and again presses his lips to hers. Softly, giving her the option to pull away if she should wish it.

Instead, she sighs into the kiss and tilts her head, giving him a better angle.

She’s missed him. She’s missed the way he wraps himself around her when he’s asleep making her feel safe and warm. She misses the brush of his lips against her skin, the feel of her fingers raking through his hair. She’s missed their quiet conversations in the dark, Alex burrowing her face in his shoulder, laughing when he makes an unintentional joke.

His hand slips to the back of her head, pulling her closer. Alex squeezes his bicep, slides her hand over the wing of his shoulder to tangle in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. She presses into his space, ever closer. He takes her into his arms and leans back until he’s lying on the floor with her settled on top of him.

Alex laughs into the kiss. She whispers, “You’re getting dust all over you.”

The hunger in his eyes tells her how much he doesn’t care. He leans up to kiss her again, hands on her waist. They shift upward until he’s cupping her breasts. Alex sighs happily and places her hands over his, urging him to tease and knead at them, even through the layers of her T-shirt and bra. 

Fuck, she’s missed this, too.

He breaks the kiss to nuzzle at the column of her throat. Alex closes her eyes and tilts her head as he presses open-mouthed kisses along her skin.

Alex nearly forgets herself in the heat of the moment. Her fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, fingers delving underneath the fabric to feel the warm skin beneath. She wants to pull it over his head, to kiss and suck and leave marks, claiming him as her own.

She nearly forgets herself, but not for long.

Simon’s bare feet appear in the corner of her vision. He gets only as far as “Dr. Strand--?” before he’s gone again.

Alex laughs and hides her face in Strand’s shoulder. “Guess our few minutes are up.”

Strand smiles and nods, helping her to sit up before standing and extending a hand to her. Alex takes a moment to brush the worst of the dust from the back of his shirt. She might linger a little too long on his ass, but Strand only gives her a knowing look, his lips turned up in a smile.

They go downstairs to find Simon in the kitchen, his pale skin a bright red. He doesn’t look at either of them when he says, “I didn’t know what to do next.”

Wordlessly, Strand shows Simon what to do. Alex stands back, watching them. They work well together, moving seamlessly around each other.

It really should be her turn to cook, but since Simon has been staying with them, he’s shown an interest in cooking. She doesn’t blame him. They can only have dry eggs, sandwiches, and soup so many times before they get sick of it. Lucky for Simon, Strand is an excellent cook and a patient teacher. He watches Simon closely and only course corrects when necessary.

They put together a homemade chicken stir fry--much healthier than anything Alex could manage. And _much_ better tasting, as well.

The three of them sit at the kitchen table, digging into their meals, when after a moment of silence, Simon speaks.

“If you--” He keeps his eyes on his fork, moving a piece of broccoli back and forth on his plate. “If you need time alone. I can go.”

“Simon, no,” Alex says. “Where would you even go?”

“I like...the library. I used to go there. Before I came here.”

Strand frowns and shakes his head. He must have left his notebook upstairs, because he pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the notes app. He taps out, _It’s safer for you here._

“You’re better now,” Simon insists. “You don’t need me all the time.”

_I meant as an escaped patient. They’re looking for you._

“They won’t find me. I won’t let them.”

“Simon,” Alex says. She waits until she catches his gaze to continue. “You can go to the library, but only if you _want_ to go to the library. No one is forcing you to stay in the house. But you don’t have to go anywhere, either, okay?”

Alex glances at Strand, who gives a reluctant nod.

Simon bites his lip, worrying at it for a long moment. “Are you...sure?”

“Very sure,” Alex says. “And I’m sorry, if we made you feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s...normal to want to be with the person you love,” Simon says. “You don’t have to hide it.”

Alex flushes. She looks at Strand to see points of color high on his cheeks.

As Simon spears a piece of chicken and chews, looking strangely vulnerable, like an upset child who isn’t quite sure why he’s upset, Strand taps at the screen of his phone.

_It is normal. Thank you, Simon._

If anything, Alex flushes deeper. Her cheeks are burning, all the way up to her ears. It’s as close as they’ve ever gotten to admitting their feelings for one another.

 

**19:01 - Present Time**

Alex and Strand sit close on the sofa, Alex tucked against Strand’s side. Simon sits in the recliner, eyes glued to the television, a throw pillow hugged to his chest. They’re watching _Lilo & Stitch_, a movie neither Simon nor Strand have seen.

Alex looks around the room, wrapped in the warmth of the moment.

She smiles, one of the lines particularly resonating with her.

 _This is my family_.

She sighs and settles closer to Strand.

_It’s little and broken. But still good._

Yes, she thinks. But still good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, um, did some extensive revision. On previous chapters. Which is why you might have seen the "Part Three" up at the top. I also deleted the last chapter I posted. Dunno if you might have seen it, but I gave it another read and scrapped it. I'm a little happier with this fic now.
> 
> Also, from here on out we're looking at saving the world. I don't yet know how, but we're in it to win it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me so far. Every comment makes my day and encourages me to keep writing.


	18. Friday - Early Morning

**06:17 - Present Time**

The demons are loud this morning. Louder than they’ve been for a week.

 _You will give in_.

 _One way or another_.

 _We will_ make _you give in_.

Strand shakes his head, trying to dislodge the voices.

Simon, sitting across from him with his glass of orange juice and half-eaten omelette, winces.

 _You too?_ Strand writes in his ever-present notebook.

“They’re desperate,” Simon says. “Keep on your guard.”

_When does all of this stop?_

“It doesn’t. You just get better at controlling it.”

Strand sighs. _What about the Horn of Tiamat? What happens when we close the Door?_

Simon rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “If we find it, you mean.”

Strand gives him a look, hoping to convey the truth in the words he writes next. _We will. It may take time, but we will. What happens then?_

“I don’t know.” Simon pushes a bit of egg around on his plate. “We use it to close the Door. Lessen the demons’ power. Lock away the Adversary. But I don’t know if it will get rid of the darkness already infecting this world for good.”

Strand taps the notebook with his pen. The voices are insistent, the hissing in his ears distracting. They refuse to be ignored.

He ignores them anyway.

 _There has to be something,_ Strand writes.

The smile Simon attempts is not reassuring. 

_I refuse to remain like this. A danger._

“So don’t be. You’re strong. You’re in control. You could speak now, if only you let yourself.”

He opens his mouth, but he feels the same squeezing sensation around his throat. Stronger than usual. _I can’t._

Simon gets up from the table. He scrapes the remains of his omelette into the garbage disposal. “You can. You’re afraid.”

He’s rinsing the dish to place it in the dishwasher when Strand follows him and shows him the notebook.

_What do I have to be afraid of?_

Simon peers at him, as if the answer should be obvious. When Strand only lifts his brows, inviting Simon to continue, he says, “What you’ve always feared. Failure.”

Strand shakes his head in denial, even as he realizes it to be true.

“You want to stay like this. Because you’re afraid it will never get any better. And you’re afraid of what will happen if it gets worse. But you can’t hide behind your fear. We have--”

A scream.

Alex.

Another nightmare?

The look on Simon’s face, however, says it’s something else. Something terrible. “We have to help her.”

He dashes into the other room. Strand closes his eyes and thinks hard about Alex. Her bright brown eyes, the softness and safety of her hands running through his hair, her laugh, her voice whenever she challenges him. A lurching sensation pulls at his stomach. Jumping will be faster than running after Simon, but it never fails to make him nauseous.

He opens his eyes to find himself in the family room. The chessboard, ready for another game, is still set up on the coffee table. The television plays low, looping the menu screen for the DVD Alex and Simon fell asleep to the night before. The sofa and recliner are both a nest of pillows and blankets.

Alex struggles in the hold of two stocky men. The blond man covers Alex’s mouth with his hand, muffling her cries for help. She tries to kick, stomping down on their respective insoles, but either the men’s sneakers are too thick for her bare feet or in her panic she isn’t strong enough to affect them. She throws her elbows, trying to jab at their stomachs, but their faces register no pain.

In fact, their expressions register absolutely nothing.

Another man, young-ish but prematurely balding, wearing a polo and a pair of slacks, and a woman, with short auburn hair, wearing a floral sundress and strappy sandals, stand just in front of Alex and the two thugs. The picture of the average American couple, if you could discount the hideous smiles distorting their faces.

“It's you,” Simon says. Only because Strand has spent so much time with Simon in the last week and a half does he recognize the anxiety, even fear, in the younger man.

Strand wants to ask who--he doesn't recognize any of the people in the room--but his throat clamps down.

“You're like my parents. You work for him.”

The Adversary.

“SiiMoNn.” The woman’s voice is inhuman. Several voices speak all at once, guttural and strange. He the sound of it reverberates at the base of his spine. 

He recognizes those sounds from the exorcism he witnessed several years before. With Father Vincent.

He recognizes them from his own mind.

 _Very good,_ the voices in his head hiss.

_We told you._

_We will_ make _you give in._

 _No,_ he tells them. _No. Leave her alone._

The voices twist in his mind, radiating dark glee.

“Let her go,” Simon says.

“wE hAVe coME tO bArGainn,” the balding man says.

“Then take me,” Simon says, stepping closer. He stops just in front of Strand, his posture tight. 

He’s protecting Strand. The slight young man who rescued Strand from his demons, who spent most of his life under the control of his own demons, has physically placed himself in harm’s way in order to protect Strand.

Strand shakes his head. He tries to pull Simon back. 

Simon shakes him off, his eyes never leaving the possessed couple.

Alex continues to struggle. Her eyes are wide with fear.

“Wee DO noT WannT Yoou, sSiMonN,” the woman says.

“WE WaNt STrAnD,” the man says.

One of the thugs pulls a gun and flicks off the safety. He points it at Alex’s gut. She stops struggling. Tears fill her eyes and spill over the hand still held over her mouth.

 _Stop!_ Strand shouts in his mind, unable to vocalize the words. _Stop, please!_

 _You know how to make this stop,_ the voices say. No longer hostile, they’ve taken on a reasonable tone. 

_You can make this stop._

_We can keep her safe._

_He_ will _keep her safe._

_You just have to let him in._

_Let him in._

Simon stares at Strand, as if he can hear the conversation. “Dr. Strand. Don’t.”

Alex shakes her head, but stops when the gun presses into her belly.

 _Simon,_ Strand thinks. _Simon, too._

_Simon is one of us. He will come to no harm._

_And my daughter?_ he asks. _Charlie?_

_She is important to you._

_She will also be kept safe._

“HaVE yOU cOMe To a DeCISion?” the balding man asks.

Strand closes his eyes. If he does this, he will be dooming the world to darkness. But those he loves will be kept safe. _Can I...say goodbye?_

Something loosens around his throat. Like a barbed chain, it falls away, no longer padlocked shut.

His voice is hoarse, gravel-rough from weeks of silence. He turns to Simon. “Thank you.”

Tears well up in Simon’s eyes. “Dr. Strand. No. You can’t.”

Strand attempts a comforting smile. “I have to.”

He turns to Alex. “I’m sorry.”

Alex manages to pull the blond thug’s hand away, even with the gun held to her. “Richard, no! Please, don’t do this!”

He wants to kiss her. Take her into his arms and tell her everything will be alright. But he doesn’t. If he does, he’ll be unable to pull away. Unable to do what has to be done. 

“I love you,” he says.

And gives in to the Adversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm...sorry? 
> 
> >:}


	19. Friday

**08:33 - 14 Years Ago**

Charlie Strand lets herself into the house as quietly as she can. But like her entire childhood, she doesn’t make it very far before she’s stopped by the voice of her father.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

He stands, leaning against the door jam, sleeved rolled up. Despite his cool tone of voice, he’s smiling.

Charlie drops her backpack and runs to him, letting him envelope her into a hug. They haven’t seen each other for months, not since the beginning of the semester, when he helped move her into an apartment off campus. “School’s out for the summer, _professor_.”

He laughs into her hair and squeezes her tight. “A likely story.”

Charlie buries her face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar smell of him. He’s been wearing the same cologne since she’s been old enough to remember and it never fails to make her feel warm and safe.

She takes a step back. “Anyway, I was trying to surprise you by coming home this weekend. Are you surprised?”

Putting his hand on her back, her father steers her toward the kitchen. Another thing she can _always_ rely on. Given the opportunity, her father _will_ feed her.

“I am,” he says as he encourages her to sit at the table. “What’s the occasion?”

“You’re kidding,” Charlie says. “This Sunday is Father’s Day.”

He blinks. “Is it?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. Without the structure of the school calendar, leave it to her father to forget what day it is entirely. “It is.”

She watches him get out eggs and milk, spinach, and a frying pan. The routine is familiar and Charlie sits back in her chair and basks in it.

He scrambles her some eggs, just the way she likes. He places a glass of orange juice next to the steaming plate and sits down across from her with a plate of his own.

“What would you like to do this weekend?” he asks.

Charlie smiles. “What would _you_ like to do this weekend?”

“I’m just happy you’re here. I’ve missed you, while you’ve been away.”

“I missed you too, Dad.”

Inevitably, the conversation drifts toward school. Her father asks her about her classes, her professors, whether she’s made any friends, or decided her field of study. Charlie asks him about the courses he’s teaching, the research he’s been doing, the papers he’s writing.

When they’re done eating, Charlie takes the plates to the sink and rinses them. She crosses back to the table and puts her arms around his shoulders from behind.

He leans his head against her shoulder. “I did alright by you, didn’t I?”

Charlie smiles. It’s not often her dad gets sentimental. It happens more often now she’s in college. “Yeah, you did.”

“I know, just us, it was difficult at times. I know you always wanted a mother, but--”

Her father is a handsome man. He’s smart, has a good job, with tenure. And, if she’s completely honest, he has an _amazing_ daughter. He’s dated over the years, more often as she got older, but it never really seemed to work out.

“You did just fine. Who needs a mom when I’ve got a dad like you?”

He laughs and squeezes her arm. “Did you read that off a Hallmark card?”

Charlie pulls away so she can smack halfheartedly at his shoulder. “Smart ass.”

He smiles at her serenely. “You had to have gotten it from somewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come help me get the rest of my stuff out of the car.”

He raises his brows. “How much did you bring?”

“Oh, you know, one or two bags.”

He gets up to follow her through the house. “You’re just staying for the weekend, right? Because if you wanted to move back home, you could just tell me.”

Charlie knows he means to tease her, but there’s an undercurrent of honesty to his words which says he really _would_ be happy to have her back home again.

He really has missed her.

“Is this you asking me to move back home? Because if you’re having trouble with this whole empty nest thing, you could just tell me.”

“Smart ass,” he says, with no real bite.

“I had to have gotten it from somewhere.” Charlie smiles and shoves a bag into his waiting arms.

He hefts it with mock-surprise before shouldering the strap. Before Charlie can settle the second bag on her shoulder, her father takes it from her.

Together, they make their way back into the house.

 

**16:33 - 7 Years Ago**

Simon Reese has just turned thirteen. No longer a tween or pre-teen. Finally, an official teenager.

He can stay out longer with his friends, stay up later. He can watch PG-13 movies without his mom to chaperone. His dad has already promised him a raise in his allowance. He has more chores, more responsibilities, but it makes him feel like he’s stepped out of childhood. His parents and teachers can no longer treat him like a baby.

Because Simon is a _teenager_. Practically a grown up already.

He takes in the birthday decor strewn across the house with a shrewd eye. His father stands on the top rung of the step stool, leaning out to tape a banner to the far corner of the wall.

“This is kid stuff,” Simon complains, taking in the streamers, noisemakers, and party hats.

His father glances at him, then at his fingers, where the tape has folded in on itself. He struggles with it one handed before he sighs and drops the banner in order to deal with the tape. “Who told you that?”

Simon rolls his eyes, hoping the ‘duh’ is implied. “No one had to _tell_ me. I just know.”

Simon’s father smiles. “Oh, so now you’re a teenager, you know everything?”

Again, Simon hopes the ‘duh’ is obvious without having to say anything.

“Well, sport, let me tell you--even at my age we still decorate for birthdays. We decorated the office for Bill just last week.”

Simon peers at him, but with his attention focused on the tape, his father doesn’t betray anything. “No way.”

Simon’s father gives up on the tape now wrapped around his fingers. He digs into his pocket for the dispenser and cuts a new piece. “Yes way. Hand me that, will you?”

Despite Simon’s misgivings, he hands his father the birthday banner. “You’re telling me you played Pin The Tail On The Donkey at work?”

His father tilts his head, conceding the point. “Not at work, no. But even if _you_ are too old for pinning tails on donkeys, your little cousins will be at the party. Don’t you want to give them something to do while you and your friends do whatever it is teenagers do these days?”

As far as Simon has determined, teenagers like to hang out on the swing set, but _never_ to actually swing. Teenagers are too cool to do anything but sit on the swing, toes of their shoes digging into the dirt, and talk. Having little kids around would totally ruin everything. “Okay. You can leave it.”

The banner hung, Simon’s father makes his way down the step ladder. He pauses at the bottom to ruffle Simon’s hair.

“Dad,” Simon says, drawing the word out as he tries to fix his hair. 

From the front of the house, a car door slams shut.

Simon’s father claps a hand on Simon’s back. “Happy birthday, champ. Now let’s go help your mother bring in the groceries.”

 

Later, Simon sits at the head of the table, friends and family surrounding him on all sides. His belly is full of cake and ice cream. He tears open the gift in front of him, the one which his mother passed to him with a soft “And this is from us.”

Inside, Simon finds the skateboard he’s had his eye on. The one he planned to pay for with his allowance, as soon as he saved up enough money.

On either side of him, Simon’s friends make impressed sounds, already clamoring for Simon to let them have a turn.

A camera flashes. 

Simon grins, but it falters. He’s happy. The happiest he’s ever been. But then, why does everything feel so suddenly wrong?

“What’s wrong, Simon?” his father asks. “Don’t you like it?”

Simon shakes his head. “It’s perfect. Can we go outside and try it out?”

“Go on, honey,” Simon’s mother says. “Just be careful playing in the street.”

The feeling of wrongness lessens as Simon and his friends take turns riding the skateboard, cheering each other on as they attempt to do tricks.

But it doesn’t disappear.

 

**07:33 - One Year Ago**

Alex walks into the studio, juggling her bag, her coffee, and a pile of notes she’d taken the night before.

She walks through the lobby, nodding hello to a few interns they pass, on their way to their respective offices. She manages to swipe her badge with a bit of maneuvering. The door beeps and allows her through.

Nic waits for her at her office. He sips at his own steaming coffee before he smiles. “Hey, Alex.”

“Hey, give me a sec. Traffic was a nightmare this morning.”

He drinks his coffee as Alex lets them into her office. She tosses her notes onto the desk and allows her bag to fall from her shoulder into the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet. She sits down with a satisfied huff.

Nic sits down, as well. “So, I wanted to talk to you about the podcast.”

“Right.”

“I know you kind of got sucked into the paranormal investigator thing, but I was talking to Terry and Paul and I think the consensus is we keep going with the original idea.”

Disappointment washes through Alex, but she can’t deny it makes sense. The world of paranormal investigation, including the enigmatic life of professional skeptic, Dr. Richard Strand, is fascinating. There could definitely be a story there. But it’s the first podcast being produced by PNWS. She wants it to be professional and fun, something that could have been produced by Ira Glass for This American Life. She doesn’t want to end up chasing dead leads on paranormal cases Dr. Strand assures her he’ll be able to disprove as soon as the technology catches up.

“Okay,” she says.

Nic raises his brows. “Okay? I thought you’d at least have some push back.”

“No, I realize it’ll be risky to change up the podcast now. But we may need to switch up the order a little. Geocaching may not be the most exciting follow up to paranormal investigation. And it’s more of a hobby, isn’t it? Not a profession?”

“You’re probably right. Got any ideas?”

Alex pulls a sheet of paper from her stack of notes. “I was doing some research last night and I came up with a few.”

Nic smiles and leans back in his chair. “Hit me.”

Alex dives in, suggesting jobs from volcanologists, veterinary acupuncturists, to ethical hackers. They discuss the merits of each, toss some ideas, but jot a few down on the list. 

Alex is excited to be a part of this project, in the breakout of PNWS in this relatively new medium. Even Dr. Richard Strand, a man with two doctorates from Ivy League universities, a man with the air of someone who knows everything, hadn’t known what a podcast was. Or that people still listen to the radio.

She’s determined to show him, and people like him, broadcast journalism isn’t dead. 

 

**10:33 - One Year Ago Cont’d**

Her stomach grumbles. Alex looks at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen.

Snack time. Almost right on the dot.

Alex opens the bottom drawer in her filing cabinet. She rifles through her lunch bag for the Greek yogurt and almonds she brought with her for her mid-morning meal. As she wrestles the items from her bag, she bangs her elbow on the cabinet. A few of the papers on her desk flutter down to the floor, making Alex roll her eyes as she rubs her aching elbow.

She sets her snack down on the desk before crawling after the papers. A few reports, notes she’s taken on some of the other stories she’s currently producing, and, weirdly enough, a photo of Dr. Richard Strand.

It’s the photo she took on the day she went back to the skeptic’s office. The one she took as an excuse to get a better look at the mysterious black VHS cases in his storeroom. 

The photo should still live on her camera. Alex hasn’t had time to transfer the photos from the memory card to her computer.

Who could have printed it out? How could the photo have gotten in her notes? 

He stands at one of the shelves, turned slightly away from the camera, looking through a book. When she took it, Alex thought it looked posed, like he was working to appear enigmatic. But now Alex studies it and it doesn’t look like that at all. Little things jump out at her. The stiffness of his shoulders, the way he never looks directly at the camera. 

Could the great Dr. Strand possibly be shy? 

Alex shakes her head. That can’t possibly be true. Not the condescending, abrasive, fascinating man she met in his office. Who looked at her with bright blue eyes and a crooked smile, face a mask of cool confidence and wry amusement. Whose fingers flew over the keys of his computer, showing her just how _easy_ it is for him to debunk a supposed haunting with just a little research and basic knowledge of physics. 

Alex looks at the photo. She did extensive research on the man before she secured an interview with him. She knows about his missing wife, how he was the top suspect for a long time, until they determined her disappearance matched the M.O. of a serial killer working in the area. She knows about the assault on the psyching, how he settled out of court. She knows the thoughts and opinions expressed by his colleagues. 

But looking at this photo, Alex knows other things. Things she couldn’t _possibly_ have found on the web.

He takes his tea with lemon and honey. He prefers reading real newspapers over those on his tablet, but makes due whenever he has to travel. He likes the rain.

She knows, inexplicably, Strand is a gentle lover. Attentive and undemanding while also starved for touch and attention. 

She also knows, without ever having touched it, the softness of his hair carded between her fingers. She knows how he melts under the touch and how, with the slightest tug, she can make him hiss in pleasure-pain, can make his eyes dilate with want, and his tongue dart out to lick his lips in anticipation.

Alex shakes her head and falls into her chair, still looking at the photo. She has to press her thighs together to ease the throbbing between her legs.

None of it can possibly be true. But still she sees flashes behind her eyes of another life. A life which could have been if she had decided to pursue Dr. Richard Strand’s Black Tapes.

Sitting in a computer chair, teasing him about torrents and what passes for music these days.

A festival of people in upside-down masks, celebrating a murder fifty years prior.

The exorcism of a young girl.

A strange, silent boy, no longer silent.

Tall shadows, demonic music, evil talking boards.

Cultists, psychics, a long-lost sister, a murdered boy found in a river.

A looming apocalypse.

The murder of a prominent lawyer.

Dr. Strand found walking along the street, covered in blood.

The strength of his hands around her neck.

His broken, hoarse voice when Richard--her Richard--tells her he loves her.

The darkness, the absolute evil which takes over his face. The bright blue of his irises turning to impenetrable steel. The hardening of his jaw. The straightening of his shoulders as he stands tall, proud, looking at her like a mighty king might look at a peasant.

She knows all of this. She sees it. But almost as soon as it comes to her, Alex feels it slipping away. 

She could be safe here. In this alternate past where Alex never pursued the Black Tapes. She could let go of Strand and live a normal life, having never encountered demons or devils doors or sacred geometry.

She could go on, having never loved Strand.

She shakes her head and hangs onto all of it, desperate not to let it disappear.

But the photograph in her hands still fades, like a polaroid in reverse. 

“No,” Alex says. “No! Take me back! I don’t want this! Take me back!”

Tears fall from her eyes, hot against her skin. She presses the photograph to her forehead. “Stop, please. Don’t take him from me. Please, I want to go back.”

With a lurching sensation, Alex pitches forward. 

And tumbles, head first into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was _so_ much fun to write :P


	20. Friday - Morning

**07:34 - Present Time**

She lands on her hands and knees before Simon can get to her.

She can still feel the gun, pressed hard into her stomach.

Tears fall from her eyes onto her hands, onto the hardwood floors. But she can’t make herself stop.

Simon kneels beside her. “Alex. Alex, you need to breathe.”

She can’t. She can’t breathe. She takes in heaving gasps of air, but none of it enters her lungs.

“Breathe. Breathe. You’re going to pass out.”

Just as dark spots begin to dance in her vision, Alex breathes. In and out, watery and awful, but she breathes.

Simon, who never touches anyone unless he has to, pulls her into his arms. He holds her close as she weeps into his shoulder. He rubs her back, hesitant, but he doesn’t try to hush her. He doesn’t try to tell her things will be okay.

Because they won’t be okay. And they never will be okay again.

“Why?” she demands, her tears soaking Simon’s T-shirt. “Why did he do that?”

What he says doesn’t match the undercurrent of fury in his voice. “Because Dr. Strand is a man who will do anything to protect those he loves. Even at great expense.”

“No,” she says, not denying his words, but _everything_. All of it. The music, the demons, the Door. The Advocate, Warren’s murder, the Adversary. The false past where Strand must have thought she could live, happy never having known him--the _real_ him.

“Simon, what will we do now?”

His expression is grim. “What we have to.”

“How? Richard is gone. The Adversary is here. How are _we_ supposed to stop him?”

“We have some time. His goal will be to infect as many people as he can. But even as he walks the Earth, the Door has yet to open completely. We must close it, limit his power. Then…”

Alex’s eyes go wide. “No. No, Simon, we can’t. We can’t kill him. There has to be another way.”

Simon’s expression softens. “I’m...sorry, Alex. The Adversary is powerful. There...may not be anything left of Dr. Strand.”

Fresh tears well in her eyes, but Alex dashes them away. 

She never got the chance to tell him she loves him. For that alone, she has to believe Strand is still in there, buried underneath the Adversary. She has to believe Strand can still be saved.

“We have to find the Horn,” she says.

Despite wanting nothing more than to bury herself in Strand’s bed and never emerge again, Alex trudges up the stairs to the third floor.

Simon follows her up, a sullen shadow at her back.

 

**09:41 - Present Time**

Chrissy Martino is late. So late. Late enough she called out of work for the morning. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate, not with the dread simmering in the pit of her stomach.

She should have bought the test a week ago.

A week and a half ago, maybe.

But what started as dismissal--there are _lots_ of reasons she could be late--became denial. Sure, she slept with Tony, sure she let him convince her they didn’t need to use a condom, but she can’t be pregnant. She just can’t. 

From denial, she’s hit full-blown panic.

What if she is pregnant? She doesn’t even know Tony. Not well, anyway. Just that he’s from accounting and plays in an 80s revival band.

Why, why did she break her rule about dating people from the office? And why did she let him come up to her apartment afterward, knowing full-well what was going to happen?

Chrissy stands in line at the CVS, clutching the little box to her like a lifeline.

She averts her eyes when it’s her turn at the counter, avoiding what’s sure to be the judgmental gaze of the cashier.

Why didn’t she go somewhere with a self checkout kiosk?

She pays and all but runs from the store, nearly knocking into an elderly man as he enters.

Chrissy throws the bag with the receipt into a nearby trash bin. She shoves the test into her purse. She should wait until she gets home. But she doesn’t want her roommate to see her shame. Samantha is already self-righteous enough as it is. Chrissy doesn’t need her to find the test in the trash, to extol her virtues and by comparison make Chrissy feel even worse than she already does.

She ducks into the nearby Starbucks, certain all eyes are on her as she makes her way to the back of the coffee shop. She has to wait for one of the two stalls to free up. Even then, she sits in the stall until the other person leaves.

Her heart is pounding.

If she is pregnant, she knows there are options. She can have the baby or not. But, still, it feels as though her entire future rests on the results of this test.

She follows the directions. It takes her a moment to work up the courage to even pee, but she gets through it. She sets the timer on her phone and waits.

Not pregnant.

“Thank God,” she says, too elated to keep it to herself.

She’ll have to take the test again in a couple days. Maybe see her doctor for a blood test. But seeing those two little words have done wonders for her anxiety.

Chrissy throws the test in the bin. She flushes and washes her hands, practically humming now the worst of the weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

She might as well stop for a cappuccino before going into work. As a reward, for getting through her ordeal.

She swings open the door, already rehearsing her order, when she stops.

Something is wrong.

Really wrong.

The coffee shop is dead silent.

The same crowd remains, but the people stand perfectly still. She would think it just one of those flash mobs, the ones where everyone freezes for a specified amount of time, except for the impossible smiles twisting their faces into something horrible.

In the center of the crowd sits a man, older, with hints of grey at his temples, wearing a dark suit. He alone sits reclined in his seat, legs crossed. He alone stirs idly at a cup of coffee.

He looks at her. His eyes are a bright blue, but hard like ice. They remind her of glaciers--ages old and cold, so very cold.

The man stands up, unconcerned by the people standing frozen, smiling rictus grins, around them. He slips between them, coming closer, closer, until he stands towering before her.

Chrissy wants to run, but her feet are glued to the floor.

“Seems I missed one.” His voice is like hot, fiery coals. But when he touches her, cupping her cheek with his palm, his hands are like chilled marble.

“Who--who are you?”

He smiles, but it’s devoid of any warmth. “Your savior.”

“What--”

Chrissy isn’t given the chance to finish. The man holds her in place with one hand on her shoulder. The other hand slides from her cheek to her forehead.

Something presses hard against her head--no, not her head, her mind. Something dark, all swirling shadow and sharp claws. It digs in and Chrissy screams.

She struggles, but it doesn’t do any good. With a final push, the darkness forces its way inside.

Her face contorts itself into a hideous grin, but she can do nothing to stop it.

The man lets go of her. He turns, surveying the coffee shop like a man browsing art in a museum. He snaps his fingers and, like magic, the people come unfrozen. Even Chrissy moves.

But not by her choice.

Chrissy screams behind a cage within her own mind, but her body remains in the control of something hissing and terrible. She goes through the motions of ordering an expensive coffee, the horror inside her mirrored in the eyes of the young barista, despite the strange smile curling his lips, far, far too wide for his face.


	21. Sunday - Afternoon

**12:04 - Present Time**

Alex and Simon haul all of Howard Strand’s belongings into the family room. They leave the television playing, occasionally flipping through news channels, but there’s nothing. No news about the impending apocalypse. No news about Satan walking the Earth. No news about anything demonic. Not even a spike in crime.

Simon spots her watching the ticker feed at the bottom of the screen. He takes the stack of Howard’s letters from her lap. She hasn’t been able to concentrate for the last few minutes. “You should eat.”

“I can’t stop now. I need to find--I don’t know, anything.”

“His influence is spreading,” Simon says. “I can feel it. But he’s keeping a low profile. We have time. Not much, but enough for you to stop and eat. You’ll need your strength.”

Alex eyes the number of boxes around them. The strewn papers. Open books. Paintings and photographs torn from their frames. With so much still to look through, Simon is right. She should take a break. Come back with fresh eyes. Or, at the very least, re-caffeinated. 

Simon holds out a hand to help her up--he’s been exceedingly gentle with her since Strand’s disappearance--but before she can take it, they’re both startled by a knock on the door.

“Who--?” Alex asks.

Simon looks equally confused. “Stay here. I will check.”

“It could just be Nic. Or Geoff. Ruby, maybe. Coming to check in.”

If it is, Alex has no idea what to tell them. She hasn’t apprised them of the situation. At all. How can she? 

Sorry Nic, I know you’re too busy tripping balls in a cabin in the woods, but we have a legitimate apocalypse on our hands? 

Sorry Ruby, your boss--a man you consider family--not only killed someone while under the influence of real-life _demons_ , but is now roaming the streets spreading darkness and chaos as the one true vessel for the Adversary?

“It could also be agents of the Adversary,” Simon says.

Alex hadn’t even thought of that. Up until two days ago, when she was woken up by two possessed thugs and demonic Stepford versions of the Hochmans, she thought they were untouchable in Strand’s father’s house. She thought they were safe. Relatively safe, considering the demons inhabiting the bodies of both Strand and Simon.

But if the person or persons at the door meant them harm, why would they knock?

Simon spares her a glance when she follows him, but doesn’t insist she stay out of sight. She compromises, just a little, by hanging back as he opens the door.

Two people Alex never thought she’d see again stand on the porch. A tall man with a boyish face and charming smile. A beautiful brunette with hazel eyes and a confident set to her shoulders. Both have duffel bags sitting at their feet.

“Hello Alex. Hello Simon,” Coralee says.

“We thought you could use a bit of help,” Tannis Braun says.

 

**14:02 - Present Time**

Today is the day for Derek Masters. He’s finally going to get the promotion he wants--no, the promotion he _deserves_. 

He’s worked hard over the last few years. He’s kissed a lot of ass. But now, it’s all about to pay off.

Today is the day the board of director appoints the new CEO of Daeva Corp.

And Derek Masters is the man for the job.

He’s just about got the job in the bag, but still he eyes his reflection carefully in the men’s bathroom on the 52nd floor.

His suit is impeccable. Straight from the dry cleaner, pressed within an inch of its life. He’s wearing a silk tie straight from Italy. His shoes, shined to perfection, cost almost as much as his jacket.

Everything is in its place.

Dress for the job you want and all that.

He gives himself a silent pep-talk, psyching himself up like he used to before varsity tennis matches.

Showtime.

Derek breezes down the hall. He opens both of the double doors and tries to take the seat at the head of the table. Thomas Warren’s seat, before the man was murdered.

Someone, a man Derek has never seen before, has already taken the seat. He’s a slightly older man. His hair is dark and thick, slicked back from his forehead, distinguished grey at his temples. He lounges back in the leather executive chair, his feet crossed, propped up on the table. He regards Derek with bright, steely blue eyes.

Derek shivers. Despite how put together the man looks, something about him feels _wrong_. And he’s sitting in Derek’s seat. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

The rest of the board are sitting at the table, eerily silent. None of them move, not an inch, except to blink as they stare out at nothing. Then they turn, as one, to look at him. They grin the freakiest fucking grins Derek has ever seen in his life.

“What the shit?”

“Please, take a seat, Derek. We’ve been waiting for you,” the man speaks. His voice brings to mind the fire beneath a pig on a roasting spit. How is that even possible? 

“How do you-- If this is some kind of prank--”

“Sit,” the man says.

Before Derek can protest, two of the board, Danielle and Paul, force him down with inhuman strength into an empty seat.

Derek swallows hard.

“Who are you?” Derek manages. “What do you want?”

“I want to give you what you want, Derek.”

Derek looks nervously around the table. He thought he was a little more subtle in his goal to become CEO. But the board members say nothing. They just sit there, _grinning_ at him.

“What the hell did you do to them? Because this isn’t how--”

Danielle clamps a hand over Derek’s mouth. He tries to pull away, but she’s too strong.

The man swings his legs off the table. He stands, towering over each of the board members. He buttons his suit jacket and strolls to where Derek is sitting, held still by the iron grasp of Danielle. 

“Hold still,” the man says. “Struggling only makes it worse.”

Derek’s eyes go wide when the man presses a hand against his forehead. He screams behind the fingers of Danielle, but it’s no use, it’s no use.

Something slimy slips inside Derek’s head. It wraps itself like a boa constrictor around his mind.

Danielle releases him, but Derek can’t move. It’s like the connection between his brain and the rest of his body has been cut off.

The man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He caresses Derek’s face, fingers cold as a corpse.

Derek, against his will, leans into the touch.

“Destroy the machines,” the man says. “All of them. Kill anyone who gets in your way.”

The thing inside Derek hisses in assent.

 _No_ , Derek screams, but nothing comes out of his mouth. _Please, no_!

But it doesn’t do any good.

 

**14:30 - Present Time**

They sit at the kitchen table, Alex and Simon on one side, Coralee and Braun on the other.

“You knew he was in danger,” Alex says. “I thought you were supposed to be protecting him.”

If Coralee is offended by the accusation in Alex’s tone, she doesn’t show it. “I’m sorry, Alex. There were pressing matters I needed to attend to. With Simon here, I thought--”

“What? You thought a nineteen year old kid could stave off the apocalypse until you were good and ready? What the hell was so pressing you couldn’t have come before Richard--before he--”

Most of Alex’s anger fizzles out, like a candle at the end of its wick. Her eyes go hot, but she blinks away the tears. 

“Gave in,” Coralee finishes.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Strand,” Simon says, his voice quiet, unable to meet the other woman’s eyes. “I should have done more.”

“It’s not your fault, Simon. If anything, it’s mine.”

Alex barely manages to suppress a ‘you’re damn right it is.’

“I should have kept better watch over the agents of the Adversary,” Coralee continues. “But it was all I could do to keep Richard safe from the Disciples of Tiamat.”

“What do you mean?” Alex asks.

“Simon may have already told you this, but Warren wanted Richard destroyed. It was not a popular decision--it was agreed we should put more faith in Tiamat. Richard has, until recently, been innocent in all of this. But after Warren was killed, the Disciples have been clamoring for Richard’s blood. For vengeance. But also to stop him from becoming the Adversary.”

“How did you stop them?”

Until now, Braun has been silent. Watching the discussion with keen blue eyes. But now, he motions toward Coralee like a game show host showing off the grand prize. “You’re looking at the new Advocate.”

Simon flinches in what looks like pain. He pushes himself up from the table.

Alex stands as well. “Simon?”

“I...need a moment.” He leaves the kitchen on silent, socked feet, his shoulders held stiff.

“Take all the time you need, Simon,” Coralee calls after him.

“Will he be okay?” Alex asks.

“The demons will want to compel him to kill me,” Coralee says. It doesn’t exactly answer Alex’s question. 

Braun hums in agreement. “Simon is strong, but I’m surprised it has taken this long for them to affect him.”

Alex watches the entryway with anxious eyes. How can the people across from her talk about Simon’s possession--his pain--as if it were nothing more than a twisted ankle? “Is there anything we can do to help him?”

“Not until we find Tiamat’s Horn,” Coralee says. She gets up from the table, and like she’s lived her entire life in Strand’s house, goes straight to the cabinet and pulls down a mug. She fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove. From the pantry, she retrieves a box of teabags and the sugar. “Would anyone else like some tea?”

The sight of Strand’s wife--his _ex-wife_ \--so comfortable in Strand’s kitchen fills Alex with a hideous mixture of fury and jealousy. 

She tries to bury it, far down inside her.

It sits, simmering, just below the surface of her skin. No matter how much she tries to convince herself they don’t have time for petty feelings. Not with the fate of the world at stake.

Alex takes a deep breath. “No, thank you. And you’re sure the Horn of Tiamat is the answer? It won’t just close the door, but get rid of the demons who’ve already slipped through?”

“I’ll take some,” Braun says. He turns to Alex as Coralee fetches another mug. “We’re reasonably sure.”

“Oh great.” Alex rolls her eyes. “Reasonably sure. Why are you even here, Tannis?”

The understanding in his eyes, his refusal to rise to her bait, makes Alex all the more angry. “Beyond saving the world?”

“He’s good at finding things,” Coralee says, leaning against the counter as she waits for the water to boil. 

Leaning against the same counter Alex and Strand once stood against as they sipped tea. Where Strand once lifted her onto the counter to kiss Alex senseless.

“He found me,” Coralee says, like that’s all the proof Alex should need. 

Either she’s unconcerned for the way Alex’s fists clench on the table or Alex is better at hiding her distress than she thought.

“Oh, right,” Alex says. “How could I have forgotten? Tannis is _psychic_. He can find anything.”

“I can try,” Braun says.

“If you can try now, why couldn’t you try before? If you’re supposed to be psychic, why couldn’t you have helped us while Strand was still Strand? If you’re so psychic, why couldn’t you have fucking warned us?” She’s practically yelling at him, hot tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. But she can’t stop. Because if she doesn’t embrace her fury, she won’t be able to keep herself together.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Braun says. His boyish features are twisted with regret.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Alex,” Coralee snaps. “You’re not the only one of us upset by all this. You’re not the only one to lose him.”

“Don’t fucking give me that, Coralee. You didn’t _lose_ him. You conned him into marrying you and then you fucking _left_ him. And he didn’t just lose his wife when you disappeared. He was the prime suspect in your _murder_ , Coralee. He lost _everyone_ he loved. Everyone he ever trusted.”

Coralee’s face flushes red. “It had to be done.”

“No,” Alex says. And the tears spill over, running silent down her face. She wipes them away with the sleeve of her shirt--one of Strand’s flannels. She’s so fucking tired of crying. “No, it really didn’t.”

She turns and leaves the kitchen, even as Coralee calls her name.

As she makes her way into Strand’s room, she hears Braun say, “She’s grieving. Give her time.”

She hears Coralee’s voice under the whistle of the kettle. “The Adversary has been loose for two days, now. His influence is spreading. We don’t _have_ time.”

Alex slips into the cool, comforting darkness of Strand’s room. She curls herself into his bed, wrapping the comforter around her like a poor facsimile of his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alex :(
> 
> Also, the next chapter might not get published for a bit. I have another project* I need to work on before the due date sneaks up on me.
> 
> *Hint: For those of you who don't already know, I wrote an episode for a podcast, which aired last March. Guess who was asked back to write an episode for season three?


	22. Sunday - Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Plot!

**21:19 - Present Time**

Alex dreams fitfully throughout the afternoon. She dreams of Devil’s Gates and upside down faces and once of Strand, straddling her waist as he paints sacred geometric circles onto the bare skin of her back. It isn’t her dreams which pull her out of sleep, however, but the hunger twisting in her gut.

She sits up and stretches. She listens for the voices of Coralee and Tannis Braun, but all she hears is the buzz of silence settled throughout the house. 

Her body is heavy with exhaustion, but Alex forces herself out of bed. She picks her way through Strand’s bedroom in the dark and opens the door to more darkness. Only the glow of the television, the volume turned almost mute, lights Alex’s way.

Simon is curled in the armchair, asleep. The remote dangles from his hand.

Alex smiles, the edges of it bittersweet. Simon has his own room, but since Strand’s disappearance, he’s taken to sleeping in the armchair. A watchful guardian in the form of a young man plagued by demons--in more than one manner of speaking.

Alex gathers the blanket from the back of the sofa. She unfolds it and wraps it around Simon’s shoulders.

As the weight settles over him, Simon blinks awake. “Alex?”

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Simon shrugs. “They’re upstairs. It hurts less when they aren’t as close.”

“But it still hurts?”

Simon shrugs again. “The voices...they’re loud. Insistent.”

What must it be like to have demons in your head with the Advocate sharing the same roof? How cruel is it to Simon for Coralee and Braun to stay in the same house? 

Alex wants to put her hand on his shoulder, but she respects his aversion to touch unless he’s the one to initiate it. “I’m going to make something to eat. Are you hungry?”

Simon nods. “May I have some hot cocoa?”

Alex and Strand have tried to make it clear Simon can have whatever he wants whenever he wants it, but he still feels the need to ask first. “Of course, Simon.”

He follows her into the kitchen. Alex flicks on the light and moves toward the refrigerator while Simon rifles through the cabinets for a saucepan. Alex hands him the milk before bending down to peer into the fridge. With some creative shuffling, she finds a Tupperware with leftover spaghetti.

As she places the Tupperware into the microwave, Simon combines sugar, cocoa powder, and milk into the saucepan, just as Strand showed him to do. He stirs until the mixture comes to a boil. Then he turns down the heat and adds more milk. He watches the pan intently until the cocoa is heated and takes it off the burner. He adds a little vanilla and pours the cocoa into a mug.

The microwave beeps and Alex removes the Tupperware, hissing when the pads of her fingers meet hot plastic. She drops it onto the counter before she can burn herself.

Simon gives her a concerned look, cocking his head. 

Alex smiles and shakes her head. She takes a fork from the drawer and picks the Tupperware up with two napkins to shield her fingers.

They sit at the table, in what have become their usual seats. Simon drinks his cocoa. Alex spears noodles with her fork. Both take comfort in the other’s presence even while lost in their own thoughts.

Alex has just gotten used to the silence when the stairs creak under the weight of footsteps. Excited whispers grow louder as the footsteps approach. Simon hunches over his cocoa and Alex resists the urge to move between him and the entryway.

Coralee appears first, with Braun close behind. In Braun’s hand is a leather bound book. The same leather bound book Alex remembers Thomas Warren giving to Strand. Howard Strand’s journal.

Braun catches Alex looking and holds the journal up. “I found this among Strand’s belongings.”

He says the word ‘found’ as if there’s more behind it than a search with his eyes. But Strand’s words, back when she first questioned him about Braun’s psychic talent, still echo in her mind. Anyone listening to Alex’s podcast would know the existence of Howard Strand’s journal. Did Braun purposely set out to find the journal? Or was he somehow drawn to it by something beyond Alex’s understanding?

Alex narrows her eyes at him. Is he a genius investigator? Does he know more than he’s letting on? “Where? I haven’t seen that since our meeting with Thomas Warren.”

“Behind a wall in an empty room on the third floor,” Braun says. He smiles, big and bright, like he’s speaking to an audience of eager onlookers.

“Behind a wall?”

Coralee takes a seat at the table. She crosses one long leg over the other. She releases a breath, a long sigh of air which seems to deflate the aura of cool confidence she’s carried since she rescued Alex and Strand from Thomas Warren’s men. She rubs at her eyes. “Richard was always very good at hiding. Objects. Himself. He learned very young.”

“I bet that was frustrating for you,” Alex says. 

Coralee meets Alex’s eyes and nods, acknowledging the dig at her role as Strand’s handler. “It was. For that reason and--”

Coralee frowns, her gaze turning inward. “He lets so few people in. Even while we were married, there was still so much of himself he held back.”

Braun squeezes Coralee’s shoulder and takes a seat at the table beside her. “You know all he ever wanted was to keep his family safe.”

Coralee nods, but Braun’s words seem to be little comfort.

“So, the journal,” Alex says, eager to get the conversation back on track. “What’s in it? Why is it so important?”

“I was tasked with recovering a paper, the one Howard wrote theorizing the location of the Horn of Tiamat. I was never able to locate it. I looked everywhere. Turned our house upside down, tracked down every person who bought Howard’s possessions when the university auctioned them off. Needless to say, I was never able to find it. Before or after I went into hiding.”

“You think Howard Strand wrote where he hid the paper? In a journal Thomas Warren had in his possession the entire time?”

Coralee shakes her head. “I don’t think there ever was such a paper. Howard knew the importance of the Horn. And I think he knew he was being hunted. The paper was a misdirection, to keep Warren looking, even after Howard was murdered.”

“So, we’ve been wasting our time looking for a paper that doesn’t even exist? If that's the case, how are _we_ supposed to find the Horn of Tiamat?”

Alex expects Braun to speak up, to tell them he plans to use his psychic abilities. He doesn’t. Instead, Coralee slides the journal from in front of Braun across the table to Alex. 

Alex unwraps the leather strip from around the journal. She opens it, flips through a few pages. Simon peers at the book beside her. Beyond a few notes in the margins, notes made in clear English in another hand entirely, the journal is unreadable. 

“It’s in code,” Simon says.

“If I’m right,” Coralee says, “the location of the Horn will be in this journal.”

Alex looks at her, skeptical. “That doesn’t make any sense. Thomas Warren gave this to Richard. If he thought it could be this important, wouldn’t he want to translate it himself?”

A slight smile appears on Coralee’s face. “Warren had connections, but the code has remained uncracked for over twenty years. Warren couldn’t kill Richard--not without severe backlash from the rest of the Disciples--but he could put him to good use translating the text.”

Braun cocks his head, expression considering. “You think Howard imparted the key to Strand sometime before his murder?”

“It’s possible,” Coralee says. “Howard has been grooming him since he was little. Since he first saw the Tall Men with his sister.”

“But Richard--Richard isn’t here.” Alex says, hating the way her voice breaks. “And it’s not as if we can call up the Adversary and ask him for the passphrase.”

“Though that is tempting,” Braun says. His smile is forced. Even he recognizes how poor his attempt to brighten the mood.

Coralee reaches over to flips through pages of the journal until she reaches one with notes in the margins. “These notes were made by Richard. He was working on deciphering the code before the demons slipped passed his defenses. We should be able to pick up where he left off.”

“What makes you think we can crack a code that’s remained unsolvable for two decades?” Alex asks. She traces her finger over Strand’s notes. She didn't recognize his usual handwriting, having become so used to seeing the jagged scrawl of his uninjured right hand.

Coralee smiles, but it’s wan, tired, not at all boastful. “I’ve always had a knack for codes. And I’ve always worked best under pressure.”

“What could be more pressure than the end of the world?” Braun says. “My question is, if Strand knew of the journal, why didn’t he tell anyone about it? It’s been here the whole time and he never once mentioned it? Do you think he was keeping it to himself on purpose? Maybe he wasn’t as intent on stopping the Adversary as we thought.”

After her nap, most of Alex’s previous anger has cooled. But Braun’s words are enough to send it flaring up again. 

Before she can open her mouth, however, Simon stands from his seat. His head is bowed and his fists are clenched. His whole body is so taut with tension, he’s shaking, just a little. “You don’t understand.”

“Understand what, Simon?” Coralee asks.

“Possession,” Simon says, his voice only slightly louder than a whisper. “It’s like trying to swim up a waterfall. There’s so much pressure, so much force pushing you back. And it’s loud, so loud you feel like you’re suffocating. It’s hard to think. Impossible, sometimes. You try to claw your way upward, and just when you think you’ve gained an inch of control, they pull you back under, deeper, until you lose all sense of self.”

“But wasn’t he getting better?” Braun asks. “Couldn’t he have told you in that notebook of his?”

“Dr. Strand wasn’t hiding anything from us. He’s not one of _them_. The Hochmans, they were going to hurt Alex. Dr. Strand bargained with the agents of the Adversary. He did what he could to keep us safe.”

Alex faces Simon in surprise. “What I saw--you saw it, too?”

“A version of it. It was nice. Having my parents back. Being a normal kid.” Simon forces his hands to unclench. He falls back into his seat, suddenly exhausted by the force of his own emotion. “But it wasn’t my life. So I came back.”

“You came back?” Coralee asks. She turns to Alex. “You were given, what, a vision, as well?”

“It felt like more than a vision,” Alex says, returning to her chair. “It felt _real_.”

“It _was_ real,” Simon says. “I was alone, at first. When I came back. Only for a few seconds. Then you came back, too.”

“What did you see, Alex?” Braun asks. He shrinks back a little when Simon turns the full force of his intense stare on him. “If it's not too private?”

Alex sighs, letting her shoulders slump as the breath escapes her. “He sent me back to a year ago. To when I was first figuring out the podcast. My producers and I, we decided not to pursue the Black Tapes, that it was too risky to make them--to make Richard--the focus of our story.” Alex rubs her face. “I found a photo. And I _knew_. I knew it was wrong.”

“He bargained with the Adversary to keep his loved ones safe,” Coralee says. Her eyes bore into the wood of the table, a frown pulling at her lips.

Alex’s eyes go wide with realization. “You...didn’t see anything? Didn’t go anywhere?”

“No. I didn’t.”

Braun squeezes Coralee’s wrist. “Perhaps there was a reason?”

Coralee places her hand on top of Braun’s briefly before hiding her pain behind a smile. “It’s alright.”

Uncomfortable, Alex once again puts the train of their conversation back on its tracks. “So, Coralee translates the journal. What do the rest of us do in the meantime?”

Coralee straightens. “You’ll do what you do best, Alex. Research. If the location isn’t in this journal, as I suspect it is, we’ll need your expertise in order to locate it. Simon will keep an eye and ear out for the agents of the Adversary. If you say Richard bargained with the demon to keep you safe, we should be untouched here, but just in case, we’ll need a warning before we’re ambushed.”

“And Tannis?” Alex asks. “Are you going to be doing some kind of psychic _thing_?”

Braun smiles. “I’m friends with psychics all around the world. I’ll be getting in touch with them, to see if they can feel anything out.”

“Right,” Alex says, unable to keep all of the disbelief out of her voice.

“I see Strand has rubbed off on you,” Braun says. The sparkle in his eyes tells Alex he’s aware of the double entendre. 

Alex blushes and glances at Coralee, who looks away. “It’s getting late. We should--we should call it a night.”

“Agreed,” Braun says. He pushes himself away from the table. “Goodnight, all.”

“‘Night,” Simon says, but he doesn’t move from his seat.

“It’s okay, Simon,” Alex says. “You can go to bed.”

Simon stares at her a moment with his intense eyes before shuffling out of the room on socked feet.

Alex and Coralee are left at the table.

A long moment of silence draws onward.

“I’m sorry--” Alex says.

“I meant it--” Coralee says.

They both laugh, quiet and tense.

“Go ahead,” Coralee says.

“No, you,” Alex says.

“Very well.” Coralee runs a hand through her hair. “I wanted you to know, I meant it when Simon relayed my message to Richard. I _am_ glad Richard was able to move on. I’m glad he was able to find someone who cares very deeply for him. He’s been alone for so long. Which I know, in large part, is my fault, my responsibility. But you were there for him during...all of this, when he needed someone by him the most. And I’m sorry, if I’ve made you uncomfortable in any way. With my presence here, especially.”

“Thank you,” Alex says. She swallows around the emotion lumping in her throat. “But I actually wanted to apologize. For acting the way I did. It’s been...difficult, the last few weeks. The last few days, especially, with Richard--with him being gone. It wasn’t fair for me to take everything out on you.”

“You were hurting. You’re still hurting. I understand. Leaving Richard was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I can’t imagine having him taken from you.” Coralee reaches out, leaving her hand on Howard’s journal. “It’s a small comfort, I know. But we will get him back.” She smiles. “Or die trying.”

Alex nods. She gets up from the table. “Thank you. Are you...Is there a room made up for you?”

“Ruby did an excellent job, furnishing the house. Tannis and I have each found suitable rooms.”

“Okay,” Alex says. “I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

Coralee slides the journal to her. “I’m going to stay up a bit longer, see if I can get a head start on breaking this code.”

“Alright,” Alex says. She places both Simon’s mug and her own Tupperware into the sink before leaving Coralee hunched over the table, fully absorbed in Howard Strand’s journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who celebrate--a very happy birthday to Captain America. :P Hope everyone gets some pie and fireworks and a nice, long weekend.
> 
> We're heading for the home stretch of this fic. I hope to wrap it up in the next few chapters. Thanks for everyone following this story and those who have given kudos or a comment. You all rock my world.


	23. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, but I really enjoyed figuring this one out. :)

**08:37 - Present Time**

Two days later, Alex sits in the family room with a cup of coffee and her laptop. But she isn’t paying attention to the reply sent to her by one of Strand’s colleagues. No, she sits transfixed by the television. At the footage on screen.

A bridge, somewhere in Florida. Traffic sits backed up for miles. This is generally expected during rush hours, explains the reporter, but this particular morning traffic stands still for another reason.

A man is on the bridge, walking through the traffic with his arms spread wide, like a preacher addressing his flock. From the helicopter, the camera man zooms in on the scene as the reporter expresses confusion at this strange sight. None of the cars are honking. None of the drivers yell or raise angry fists. The bridge is unnaturally quiet as the man saunters between each car.

Strand.

Alex shakes her head. Not Strand. 

The Adversary.

“The more he converts, the more powerful he becomes.”

Alex startles, not having notice Braun approach. She looks over her shoulder, behind the sofa, at him. “Can you...feel it? Like the cabin where we found Sebastian?”

Alex still has no idea whether she believes Braun’s claims at being psychic, but Coralee seems to believe him, so Alex has decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. To an extent.

“I can. The Community is in an uproar.”

“What’s it like?” Alex asks.

Braun tilts his head, considering. “Sort of like the Adversary himself. Oppressive. Chaotic.”

Alex shivers. “I know--I know he’s trying to _infect_ as many people as he can. But why--why isn’t he doing more? I thought the apocalypse would be more fire and brimstone.”

“According to the Christian Bible, perhaps.” Braun says. “But the Adversary isn’t the same horned Satan you might be familiar with from Sunday School. I think Simon once described the Adversary as a virus, but demons are more like parasites. They can’t exist in this plane without a human host. He’ll release as many demons into this world as the open Door will allow. And then--well, there will be no hope for the rest of us.”

“How much time do you think we have left? Before--before that happens?”

Braun rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “Not more than a week, I’d guess. He’s infecting people on larger and larger scales. And by the looks of things, he’s confident enough to do so in broad daylight, in full view of news cameras.”

On the television screen, the helicopter circles lower, attempting to get a better look at the man on the bridge.

The Adversary looks up. He gives a little wave to the camera.

The helicopter jerks, nearly throwing the reporter and cameraman out the open door. 

The reporter turns back to the camera, but before she can say a word, a change passes over her. First, her body goes unnaturally still. Then, she tilts her head at the camera. A grin splits her face, wide and terrifying. And behind her eyes, Alex recognizes horror.

She has to tear her eyes away from the television screen. She returns to her research.

They have to hurry.

 

**12:04 - Present Time**

Coralee stumbles out of the kitchen, half-dead on her feet from exhaustion. Alex puts her laptop down on the coffee table and goes to her, helping her to stay upright.

“I did it,” she says. “I cracked the code.”

Alex nearly drops Coralee as relief washes through her.

“We just need to decipher the journal,” Coralee continues. “I can--I can--I just need to lie down first.”

Alex shuffles Coralee onto the sofa. She covers her with the blanket thrown over the back of the recliner. “I’ll do it. Just rest, okay? You deserve it.”

Coralee’s head barely hits the pillow before the woman is asleep.

Alex wastes no time. She goes into the kitchen where Coralee has set up what Braun refers to as her ‘battle station.’ Paper and pens are scattered over the table. Books lay open to various pages. A whiteboard from Strand’s basement separates the kitchen table from the rest of the room, covered in red, blue, and black notes.

On the table, Alex finds Howard Strand’s journal. Beside it, Alex finds sheets of paper covered in tables, some crossed out with giant Xs and others so covered in Coralee’s handwriting, Alex has no idea if they have been scrapped or not.

On the first page of Howard’s journal, it takes a long moment before Alex recognizes it’s written in shorthand. She takes a second to do a quick search on her phone. Glancing back and forth between the page and her search result, Alex determines the page contains no letters of the alphabet, but numbers. Strings of numbers, with spaces between each number. 

With a scrap of paper, Alex copies down the first line:

_5 6 5 1 5 4 5 1 4 8 5 3 4 8 5 0 5 7 5 3 5 4 5 1 5 5 4 9 4 8 4 9 5 5 5 0 5 6 4 9 5 4 5 2 5 4 4 9 4 8 4 9 5 5 5 2_

According to Coralee’s notes, each letter corresponds to two numbers, turning the first line into a more readable string of numbers:

_56 51 54 51 48 53 48 50 57 53 54 51 55 49 48 49 55 50 56 49 54 52 54 49 48 49 55 52_

From there, Alex follows Coralee’s notes further to discover each two digit number corresponds to another one digit number, in something called ASCII code.

Alex translates from one of the books open on the table--a book about computer coding.

_8 3 6 3 0 5 0 2 9 5 6 3 7 1 0 1 7 2 8 1 6 4 6 1 0 1 7 4_

One of Coralee’s charts then combines the numbers again into two digit numbers.

_83 63 05 02 95 63 71 01 72 81 64 61 01 74_

Finally, another chart, one with columns labeled one through five and rows labeled six through nine, with a zero standing in for the tenth row, gives Alex the alphabetical equivalent.

_t o m y s o n r i c h a r d_

Alex blinks.

_To my son, Richard. ___

It takes Alex another long moment, looking between Coralee’s charts and Howard Strand’s text, until she spots it.

The first letters in Coralee’s alphabetical chart spell out _a p o h e n i_.

Taking into account repeated letters, the key to the cipher reads:

_apophenia_

Alex sits back in her chair with a laugh. 

She has never been so glad to see that particular word.


	24. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, really short chapter, before we just about dive into the end.

**18:22 - Present Time**

Coralee carefully tears the pages out of Howard Strand’s journal and divides the pages into four equal parts. She hands a part, as well as a copy of the key, to each person. Together, working all of Wednesday, through the night, and most of Thursday, they manage to translate Howard’s journal from strings of numbers into plain, understandable English.

“So this Horn of Tiamat,” Braun says, squinting at the page before him. “It’s not some kind of animal horn and it isn’t some kind of musical instrument, as we thought. So what, then, is it supposed to be?”

“From what I can tell,” Alex says, referencing one of the pages before her, “it’s supposed to be something you drink out of? Like the Vikings used to use. It says here, Tiamat will grant whoever drinks from it certain powers.”

“A metaphor, perhaps?” Braun asks. “Most occult objects rely on symbolism and metaphor. Not to sound like Strand, but a lucky rabbit’s foot isn’t actually lucky, it just makes people _feel_ lucky.”

“Says the psychic,” Alex says. “I thought you’d be less skeptical. What if it isn’t a metaphor?”

“Some sort of potion?” Coralee asks.

“Maybe.” Alex frowns. Not for the first time, she wishes Strand were here with them, if only for his expertise in the occult. “But if the Adversary is a real thing, if the apocalypse is actually happening and demons are spilling into this world, I’m willing to believe anything.”

“Only one way to find out,” Braun says. “We just need to find the thing.”

“Did anyone translate that part of the journal?” Coralee asks, looking between them.

“I did,” Simon says, speaking up for the first time in a long time.

They wait a beat, but Simon doesn’t continue.

“Can you tell us where it is, Simon?” Alex asks.

“They don’t want me to,” Simon says. He bows his head, running his fingers through sandy blonde hair. “They want me to jump, to take it with me. They want me to burn it.”

“Jump?” Braun asks.

Coralee stands, reaching over the table for his pages of journal and the sheets of paper he used to translate it. Simon puts his hand down on the stack.

“Simon,” Coralee says, softly. “Please.”

Alex leans close, but doesn’t touch him. “You’re strong, Simon. I know you can shut them out.”

After a moment, after Simon’s shoulders relax, only slightly, Coralee tugs the paper out from under his hand. Simon allows it to be taken from him, with only the slightest resistance. 

“I..” he says. “I’m going to the library.”

And jumps.

“Whoa,” Braun says. He blinks, as if spots dance before his vision, as if he can’t actually believe his eyes.

“Will he be okay?” Alex asks.

Coralee nods, shifting through the stack of paper in front of her. “He was able to survive on his own for months. At least now he has a place to return, where he can get food and shelter. As long as he’s welcome.”

Alex has no right to make the decision on her own--this is Strand’s house, not hers--but, somehow, she knows Strand will agree with her. “Simon will always be welcome here.”

Coralee gives Alex a grateful smile, before turning to Simon’s notes. She skims for nearly five minutes before she stops and makes a little ‘oh’ sound.

“What is it?” Braun asks.

Coralee looks up. She meets first Alex’s eyes and then Braun’s. “Cheryll. Howard Strand gave the Horn of Tiamat to his daughter, Cheryll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know, I know, the show is going to run with the demonic music angle, but I wanted to switch things up just a little bit for variety's sake.


	25. Friday

**13:38 - Present Time**

“Are you sure this is okay?” Alex asks, closing the door to the rental car. “We didn’t call ahead to let her know we were coming.”

Braun smiles his most charming smile. “It will be fine, Alex.”

Coralee looks around. She’s been on edge since their plane landed in Pennsylvania. Alex can’t blame her. She’s come out of hiding, meeting with her sister-in-law for the first time in twenty years. Alex would be nervous, as well. “She’ll meet with us.”

Alex takes a deep breath and knocks on the door to Cheryll Baker’s house.

The deadbolt clicks, but the door opens only a crack, the security chain still engaged. Strand’s sister stares at Alex with a brief look of confusion. The confusion deepens when Cheryll sees Tannis Braun behind Alex. The confusion turns into something else, something truly devastated, when Cheryll’s eyes finally land on Coralee. “Cora..lee?”

Coralee gives a slight smile. “Hello, dearest.”

The door closes, but only long enough for Cheryll to slide the chain out of the door. She throws the door open and, bypassing Alex and Braun completely, throws herself into Coralee. Cheryll’s arms wrap around Coralee’s middle and she sobs audibly into Coralee’s shoulder. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”

Coralee holds Cheryll to her, smoothing the other woman’s dark hair. “I am. I’m alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Cheryll says. “I’m so sorry. I should have known. I should have known my brother wasn’t a murderer.”

Not one of them mentions Thomas Warren. Because it _wasn’t_ Strand who murdered him, even if the demons had control of Strand’s body when they killed the lawyer. Because Strand _isn’t_ a murderer.

Cheryll pulls away and wipes at running mascara. “Does Richard know?” 

She looks again at each of them, as if doing a mental headcount. “Where is he?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen the news recently, would you?” Braun asks.

Alex glares at him. “That’s why we’re here, Mrs. Baker. It’s about Richard.”

Cheryll’s eyes go wide. “Has something happened?”

Coralee guides Cheryll with an arm around her waist. “Let’s go inside. We can explain everything.”

 

The silence as they each sip their coffee around Cheryll Baker’s dining room table is nearly deafening. An out of sight clock ticks, marking each uncomfortable second as they drag by.

“Mrs. Baker--” Alex starts, only to cut herself off when nothing immediate comes to mind. What is she supposed to say after Coralee explained the situation? That Alex helped usher in an apocalypse, by opening the very Door which let to Strand’s possession. That Strand had given in to the Adversary, that the Adversary has been walking the Earth, infecting people with demonic parasites, for a week. That they have less than a week in which to save the world before it becomes shrouded in darkness and chaos. How is she supposed to follow up after dropping a bombshell such as that?

“I knew,” Cheryll whispers. “I knew our father took an interest in him for a reason. Just as I always knew the Tall Men weren’t there for me that night. They were there for Richard.”

“He took an interest in you, as well, though you may not know it,” Coralee says. “Your father gave you something. An artifact. We have reason to believe it could help us.”

Cheryll’s brows draw down. “What artifact? My father, he gave Richard plenty of strange things--occult objects. Not me.”

“Think, dearest,” Coralee says.

“We don’t have a picture of it,” Braun says, “but it should look like hollowed out cattle horn. Something someone could drink out of.”

Cheryll wrings her hands, thinking hard. Then, suddenly, her eyes brighten. “Yes! I know what you’re talking about.”

“You do?” Alex asks.

“It was strange. When my father returned from his trip, he seemed happier than usual. He stood taller, smiled. He gave Richard a book. And instead of jewelry, or a doll, or a plush animal, our father gave me this strange horn. He said it was made out of bone, but it was polished until it almost looked like metal. There were these really intricate drawings all over it. And it was stoppered, with some kind of liquid inside. I tried to open it, but Father told me not to. He told me to keep it safe, no matter what.”

“And is it?” Braun asks. “Safe?”

Cheryll nods. 

“After Coralee--” She stops, looks at the other woman, takes Coralee’s hand in hers and squeezes it. “After Coralee disappeared, I tried to distance myself. Our parents were dead, Coralee was gone, Charlie left to live with her grandparents. Everyone thought my brother murdered his wife. So, I started my own family, just me and my husband. But I could never make myself throw out that old horn. When I moved in with Phil, a year or so before we got married, I put it in a safety deposit box.”

“Can we--can you get it for us, Mrs. Baker?” Alex asks. “It’s really important.”

“I--” Cheryll looks at the table, uncertain.

“You’ve done well keeping it safe,” Coralee says, “but now we need to use it, to save everyone from the Adversary. To save your brother.”

“Do you really think you can save him?”

“I think so,” Coralee says. “But we won’t know until we try.”

Cheryll pushes herself away from the table and disappears into a hallway. A door opens out of sight and closes again a minute later. In her hand, when Cheryll returns to the dining room, is a small key, which she gives to Coralee. “Please, when you see my brother again, tell him I’m sorry. And...Ms. Reagan knows my number. He can call me. If he can forgive me for abandoning him.”

“Thank you, dearest,” Coralee says, smiling a pained smile. Alex knows she’s thinking of her own part in Cheryll’s abandonment of her brother. “I’m sure, when all of this is over, Alex will let him know.”

Cheryll’s eyes go wide. She looks between Coralee and Alex.

Alex’s face heats up under Cheryll’s scrutiny. 

“Oh,” Cheryll says. “Oh, I see.”

“Well,” Braun says, much too loud, his chair scraping against the tile as he stands. “I think it’s about time we saved the world, don’t you?”

Alex has never felt more grateful to Braun for turning the attention on himself. He smiles winsomely, as if he can read her mind. 

Alex frowns. Once more she finds herself unable to guess whether he truly has a gift or if he’s just good at reading expressions.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Baker,” he continues. “Your coffee was divine. And very much appreciated.”

At the door, Cheryll pulls Coralee in for a long hug. She shakes Braun’s hand. She seems almost at a loss when it comes to Alex, but Alex smiles and holds out her hand. Cheryll takes it in both of hers.

“I’m glad Richard isn’t alone anymore,” Cheryll says.

It will take a long, long time before Alex can forgive any of Strand’s family for leaving him, but she places her hand on top of Cheryll’s and smiles. “Thank you for all of your help.”

 

**15:04 - Present Time**

Alex doesn’t know what she expects, but the entire ride to the bank is spent in gut wrenching anxiety. Surely, the demons will have figured out what they’re doing. Surely, retrieving the Horn cannot be so simple. Surely, when Coralee turns the key of the safety deposit box, the box will be empty and their search will have to begin again.

But the Horn is there, where it’s been for nearly forty years.

Braun raises his brows when he sees it. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.”

Alex doesn’t think the Horn is particularly small. It’s about a foot in length and a few inches across at the widest point. It’s polished to a copper-like shine, with intricate patterns carved into the bone. It’s stoppered at the top, the stop decorated with the face of a wild-haired woman. Wrapped around the horn are leather straps, thin and curling with age, serving, Alex guesses, as a handle for travel.

Alex reaches into the deposit box, but stops herself just before she can touch it.

She hears waves crashing upon a shore. She smells sea salt, tastes it on her tongue. Her fingers, hovering only centimeters above the Horn, buzz with electricity. 

“What is it, Alex?” Coralee asks.

Alex pulls her hand away, then reaches out again. This time, the sensations are stronger. “Can you feel that?”

Braun frowns. “Feel what?”

Coralee moves her hand slowly, until she’s touching the Horn. “I don’t feel anything.”

Coralee turns to Braun. “Tannis?”

Braun closes his eyes, then opens them, looking annoyed. He runs his fingers along one of the carvings. “No, nothing.”

“I can hear the ocean,” Alex says, shaking her head. “I can taste it and smell it, too. And my fingers tingle. It’s like touching a live battery.”

“Strange,” Coralee says.

“Very,” Braun agrees, eyeing the Horn with suspicion. “Let’s get this thing back to the hotel and we can figure out what to do with it. Now that we’ve got it, we shouldn’t waste any time.”

The entire drive back to their hotel, even with the Horn sitting safely on Coralee’s lap, hidden from sight inside a cardboard box, Alex still feels the pull of it. It washes over her and tugs at her skin, her hair, even her clothes, drawing her towards it like the tide on a moonlit night.


	26. Friday - The End

**18:42 - Present Time**

The Horn sits innocuously on one of the beds in the hotel room Alex and Coralee share. Alex, Coralee, and Braun stare at it, each lost in their own thoughts.

Alex can still feel the pull of it. Alex hasn’t spent much time at the beach, but the roar of the waves in her ears is comforting, in a way. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine herself standing before the ocean. All that’s missing is the call of seagulls and the sun’s warmth beating down upon her.

Why, though, is it only affecting Alex this way? Both Coralee and Braun insist they feel nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing.

“It’s a shame something this important doesn’t come with a manual.” Braun says.

“Isn’t someone supposed to just, I don’t know, drink from it?” Alex asks. 

“That seems to be the case,” Coralee says, “but we have no idea what the effects might be. Beyond banishing the Adversary, Howard’s journal didn’t go into the particulars. For all we know, it could kill whoever drinks from it.”

“A sacrifice to a chthonic goddess in exchange for saving the world,” Braun muses, scratching at his chin. “It would make sense. The Old Ones always did enjoy their sacrifices.”

“You don’t need a sacrifice,” says a new voice.

Alex turns to see Simon by the door. He winces and bends over, hands on his knees.

“Simon!”

He holds up a hand, halting Alex from coming near him. “I don’t have much time.”

“Please, Simon,” Coralee says. “Tell us what you know.”

“It’s Alex,” Simon says. He’s panting a little. His hands have turned to fists, fingers caught in the fabric of his jeans. “It’s always been Alex.”

“Me?” Alex asks.

“What do you mean?” Coralee asks. “Why must it be Alex?”

“Dr. Strand and Alex. They have a connection. They’re drawn to one another. She--she’s the only one Tiamat will accept.”

“You can’t be serious,” Braun says. “This isn’t some Lifetime special. We’re not going to win the day here through the power of love.”

“It’s true.”

Everyone turns to look at Alex.

Alex blushes. “It is. Even before we started sleeping together. There was always something there, you know? No matter what, we kept finding our way back to each other.”

Coralee frowns and turns back to Simon. “How do you know all of this?”

Simon looks up. He stares at them with his intense eyes, clouded with pain. “The voices. They want me to kill her. They’re calling her the Advocate.”

The ocean waves calm the sudden racing of Alex’s heart. The sea breeze encourages her to keep breathing. The pull of the tide erases some of the pressure tightening in her chest. “I’m the Advocate?”

“Yes,” Simon says. “And we don’t have much time.”

Simon disappears from the foyer only to reappear by Alex’s side. With one sudden movement, he picks the Horn from the bed and shoves it at Alex.

“Simon? What?” 

He doesn’t answer Alex’s question. He looks at the shocked faces of Coralee and Braun and says, “I’m sorry. We need to go.”

Simon places his hand on Alex’s shoulder. 

With a lurching sensation, Alex finds herself no longer in the hotel room. She tumbles to her knees into damp sand, Simon landing on his back beside her.

“I did not know if that would work,” Simon says, breathless.

Alex pushes herself upright. They’re in the woods somewhere. On the bank of a running river. “Where the hell are we?”

“Red Bank Creek,” Simon says, rolling onto his hands and knees so he can stand. He wobbles just a little, but manages to keep himself upright. “Since the murder of that boy, no one comes here.”

Alone, out in the woods, they won’t have to worry about innocents getting hurt. 

If it comes down to that. Alex has no idea what to expect. It’s not as if she has a lot to go on. Just the words of a young man possessed by demons who want to kill her and the pull of the Horn itself.

All that matters, however, is they end this. That they save the world. That they exorcise the Adversary out of Strand. No matter what happens to her as a result.

Alex holds up the Horn. “So, I’m just supposed to drink what’s inside?”

Simon nods.

Without letting herself too much about it, Alex pulls at the stop. In its age it gives her a little resistance, but it opens.

She expects something like a burst of light or a cloud of smoke, but there is nothing so flashy as that. Instead, the smell of salt strengthens, nearly burning her nostrils. Waves crash in her ears.

Alex downs the liquid inside the Horn. 

It tastes like sea water. Fiery sea water. 

Alex forces herself to swallow and coughs as the caustic liquid settles into her stomach, warming her from the inside out.

They wait.

For a long minute, they wait, Simon staring at her, Alex staring down at herself.

“I don’t--” Alex starts. She’s interrupted as her whole body goes hot. _Something_ shifts inside her, like a cat stretching its limbs.

And then she’s no longer in control of her own body.

The voice of a woman, speaking to Alex without the use of her mouth. She laughs, the sound resonating and deep. **Relax, my child. You were right to summon me.**

_What--what’s going on?_

**You will come to no harm, if that is your worry.**

“Mother Tiamat?” Simon asks. His eyes are wide and his whole body trembles with the effort of keeping the demons at bay.

 **”They can not harm me.”** Tiamat says. **”As they can no longer hurt you, child.”**

Tiamat raises Alex’s--no--Tiamat’s hand. She takes a step toward Simon, who kneels before her, teeth clenched, head bowed. Tiamat places her hand on Simon’s chest and _pushes_. Not physically. But with command enough to force the shadow out of Simon. Simon cries out as the Presence inside his head is severed completely. It hangs in the air for a second, before it dissipates into a dark mist, disappearing back into the Hell it came from.

Simon’s eyes roll back in his head. He falls backward into the sand and doesn’t move.

_Simon!_

**Do not be concerned. He requires rest after his ordeal.**

**Now,** Tiamat says, moving several paces away from Simon’s prone form. **To finish this.**

Tiamat closes her eyes and calls forth The Darkness.

The Darkness skitters backward like a cornered spider. It jumps from location to location, attempting to evade her call.

Tiamat exerts her control. She wraps her power around The Darkness and _wrenches_ It to her location.

It appears, the eyes of It’s borrowed Host narrowed with hate. It growls, low in It’s Host’s throat. “Tiamat.”

 _Richard,_ whispers the child called Alex. 

Tiamat feels only pity for her Host. The Mortal she loves made his Decision. He is no longer the Mortal she loves.

**”You have been meddling.”**

The Darkness motions with It’s hands to encompass It’s Host. “I was invited.”

 **”You have overstayed your welcome,”** Tiamat says. She walks toward The Darkness.

For every step she takes, It retreats. Until It can no longer retreat without taking It’s eyes from her, pressed as It is with It’s back against the trunk of a tree.

 **”Do you not have power enough within your own realm?”** she asks. She reaches out and palms the jaw of The Darkness’s Host. She caresses It’s face, forcing It to look at her.

It squirms under her touch. “My children ached to stretch their limbs.”

In the span of a Mortal blink, Tiamat’s tender touch becomes a hand around the throat of The Darkness’s Host. She lifts It, barely exerting any power. **”And my children?”**

“Will be cared for. They have showed themselves incapable of ruling their Mortal lives. With my children inside them, protecting them, guiding them, they will each have everything they want.”

Tiamat slams The Darkness back against the tree. **“Your lies are feeble, at best. _You_ will have everything you want. While you sentence my children to Darkness, Chaos, and Despair. Their world ended under your rule.”**

The Darkness struggles in her grasp. It uses It’s Host’s hands to claw at her arm. “It was doomed to end from the start. Your children will be their own undoing. They will pillage this world until there is nothing left but Darkness. Sooner or later, it all ends with me.”

 **“You give them far too little credit.”** Tiamat allows The Darkness to drop back onto It’s Host’s feet. **“Now, Foul Darkness, my patience is at an end. Return now to your Kingdom. Take your Fallen children. You are not welcome in this plane.”**

The Darkness attempts to push Tiamat away. It tries to gather It’s Forces. To fight. To stake It’s claim in this world.

Tiamat laughs at It’s desperation. She pushes her Power from her in a Tidal Wave, spilling it outward in all directions. She sweeps The Darkness from the world, back through the Door, back into It’s own realm. She slams the Door shut behind the enraged Presence of the Adversary.

The Darkness’s Host crumples to the ground at her feet.

The child within her, Alex, fights Tiamat’s control, frantic for the Mortal’s wellbeing. _Please! Richard!_

Tiamat stretches, raising her arms high. She yawns, yearning to return to her sleep now her work is done. **I will leave you now, child.**

Alex staggers as Tiamat leaves her body. Her skin is like a livewire, over sensitive to even the air around her.

But none of that matters. 

“Richard!”

He isn’t breathing.

“No, no, no, no,” Alex says. She rips open his suit jacket, tears the buttons on his shirt, and loosens his tie. “Please, Tiamat, please, don’t take him from me.”

In the back of her mind, Tiamat’s voice is faint, **He made his Choice.**

Alex drops her forehead onto Strand’s bare chest. His body is cold. So cold. “He only did it to protect me. To protect his family. You understand that, don’t you? So, please-- _please_ \--help me.”

**As you wish, child.**

Something--Tiamat--guides Alex. She presses her lips to his and allows Tiamat’s power to flow through her.

The frozen lips beneath hers gradually warm. The body under her hands stirs.

With one last push of Tiamat’s power, Strand gasps. His eyes fly open as if waking from a nightmare.

It’s the last thing Alex sees before her world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go. :)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me this far.


	27. Sunday - Epilogue

**07:51 - Present Time**

The world comes back gradually.

Alex thinks she might hear voices. She imagines them calling her name.

Other times, she feels phantom sensations. Pressure where she thinks her hands might be. Gentle tugs at her hair, as if something smooths it away from her face.

Eventually, despite the heaviness lingering in her lids, her eyes flutter open.

Her entire body is stiff, like she’s run for miles and miles.

“You’re awake,” comes a familiar voice.

Braun sits in the chair beside her bed. He places the book he was reading down on the nightstand. “How are you feeling?”

Alex groans. “Like I was hit by a truck.”

“Understandable,” Braun says, smiling. “You did save the world, after all.”

The events of the last few weeks slam back into Alex. She tries to sit up, only making it upright with the help of Braun. “Richard. Simon. What happened?”

Braun looks across the bed. Alex follows his line of sight to see Strand slumped in the armchair in the corner, with Simon, asleep, sitting up against the side of the chair.

“We told them they needed to rest, but they refused to leave you,” Braun says.

Relief threatens to send Alex crashing back into unconsciousness. She manages to shake it away. “What about Coralee?”

Braun smiles. “She felt it was better she left. It’s been too long since she last saw her parents.”

Alex does not envy the other woman. She will have a _lot_ of explaining to do. But she hopes, really hopes, Coralee can find happiness, now the threat of the Adversary is gone.

Strand shifts in the armchair. 

Braun pats the bed beside Alex. “I’ll leave you to it. If you ever need a psychic for your radio show, you know where I am.”

Alex smiles. “Thanks, Tannis. I’ll keep you in mind.”

The click of the door is enough to jerk Strand out of sleep. His eyes land immediately upon hers. “Alex.”

It’s so good to hear his voice again. She’s missed it, after the last few weeks. “Richard.”

Strand reaches over the side of the chair, shaking Simon gently by the shoulder. 

The younger man’s eyes pop open. He blinks at Strand and follows the motion of Strand’s nod to see Alex. 

“Alex!” Simon throws himself at Alex, hugging her tight. When Simon releases her, Strand takes his place beside her, taking one of her hands in both of his.

“How are you feeling?” Strand asks.

Alex laughs. She can’t help it. “I should be asking the two of you. The demons? They’re gone?”

Strand nods. “Completely.”

“It’s...strange,” Simon says. “Being alone in my own head.”

“A good strange?” Alex asks.

Simon laughs, sounding carefree for the first time, perhaps, since he was a boy. “ _Very._ ”

“And you, Alex?” Strand asks. “You slept for nearly two days. You’re certain you’re suffering no ill effects?”

“I’m fine.”

Strand gives her a doubtful look.

“Really, I am. Tired, sore, but I’m fine.” Happy tears well in her eyes. “I’m just so glad you’re alright. You’re _both_ alright.”

Strand sweeps a thumb under her eye, catching a stray tear. He leans in close, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry. Alex, I’m sorry, I--”

Alex kisses him, quieting him before he can continue.

Strand’s breath hitches in surprise. Then he falls into the kiss, abandoning his apology in favor of tilting his head for a better angle. 

Simon coughs.

Alex smiles against Strand’s lips, lingering even as she senses Simon’s discomfort.

“I’m going to go downstairs. To, uh, get some breakfast,” Simon says.

As soon as the door closes behind Simon, Alex pulls away from Strand, allowing him to see the seriousness of her expression. “I understand why you did what you did. But never-- _never_ \--do that again, okay? Promise me you won’t. I can’t bear to go through that again.”

Strand ducks his head. “I cannot promise not to do my utmost to protect you.”

Alex cards her fingers through his hair. She breathes out, half-laugh, half-acceptance. “I know. Just, no more demons, okay? I’m pretty sure I’m all demon-ed out.”

Strand laughs. He takes her hand in his and kisses the skin of her wrist. “I meant what I said. Before. When--I love you, Alex Reagan.”

Tipping his head up with the pads of her fingers, Alex forces Strand to meet her eyes. He looks at her, open and honest. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she says, “but I love you, too.”

Strand scoops her into his arms. He settles on the bed beside her, pulling her close. Alex laughs and meets each of his kisses with one of her own. 

Minutes later, when their bodies are tangled together and their kisses have turned languid, Strand asks, “What will you do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have your story. After you release your podcast, what will you do? Move on to the next?”

Alex knows him well enough to see the tension behind his eyes. To know what he’s really asking.

Alex smiles. “I was thinking of taking a nice, long vacation. Somewhere far away from here.”

“I see,” he says, hiding his disappointment by nuzzling his nose along the column of her throat.

“With you and Simon, if you’d both like to tag along. I think we might deserve a break, don’t you?”

Strand exhales a laugh, making Alex squirm as his breath tickles her skin. “I would like that.”

He pulls the hotel quilt up and over their heads, blocking out the rest of the world. “I would like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This fic was a monster. I started with just a little prompt: Thomas Warren is murdered and Strand is investigated for it. Boy, I never figured it would grow into this beast.
> 
> This was also an experiment stylistically, so I appreciate everyone who stuck around as I figured it out. It's gone through a couple revisions and I can't promise it won't go through more. :P
> 
> To everyone who left comments, kudos, and bookmarked this fic: a thousand million zillion thank yous. You're all the best.
> 
> If you've stuck around this long, thank you for reading. If you're so inclined, please take a moment to leave a word of feedback. It means the world to me.


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